


The Link Endures

by DanyKinkFic



Series: Breaker of Chains [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Play, BDSM, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Blow Jobs, Canon Continuation, Choking, Cock Cages, Cock Tease, Consensual Kink, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Dominant Female Character, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Sitting, Female Character of Color, Female-Led Relationship, Femdom, First Kink Experience, Gender Role Reversal, Grief/Mourning, Impregnation, Jon Snow's Kids, Jon and Irri have a Frank and Claire Underwood thing going on, Kink Exploration, Kink Meme, Kink Negotiation, Masochism, Multi, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Character(s), Pegging, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Power Exchange, Power Play, Rare Pairings, Sadism, Smut, Submissive Jon Snow, Threesome - F/F/M, Wax Play, Whipping, breath play, first bisexual experience, male chastity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2018-11-06 09:38:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 80,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11033544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanyKinkFic/pseuds/DanyKinkFic
Summary: Sequel to my previous fic,Breaker of Chains. Picks up ten years later. The Realm is at an uneasy peace. Jon finds strength in submission, and he'll need all the strength he can muster. If you find yourself wondering how the fuck everyone got where they are, I suggest you read Breaker of Chains first. This gives away a major spoiler in the first few sentences, so please proceed carefully.NOTE: This was conceived between Seasons 6 and 7 of the show, and will not be revised to reflect things that happen in Season 7. So if a dead person shows up in this fic alive and well (one of the main characters is long dead in the show anyway), just chill out and enjoy the porn.





	1. Jon I

_Her tits are everywhere in this part of town._ Jon smiled to himself as his retinue turned onto Pisswater Bend and made its way through Flea Bottom.

The Dothraki who came with Daenerys across the Narrow Sea had settled here after the war, mainly because it was all they could afford. When she died, they erected small shrines to their Great _Khaleesi_ on nearly every street corner.

The wealthier districts remembered her as well, but theirs were far less ubiquitous and a deal more modest. They put her likeness in armor, or one of the long gowns that she detested, but nonetheless wore to formal occasions. In the parts of town that were mostly Freedmen, she wore a _tokar_ or silk dress. But the Dothraki preferred to remember her as she looked on the night she compelled them all at once to join her cause; with singed hair and nothing else. _Can't blame them, I suppose._ In his mind, Jon called Flea Bottom the Forest of Tits, because part of him was still a boy of twelve.

He’d grown accustomed to them, but when the statues first appeared, each one felt like a knife to the gut. All he could think of was what he’d lost, and how he lost it. He wanted to ban them, but Irri convinced him otherwise. _‘They need to grieve, too.’_ Tyrion was more practical about it, reminding him of the benefits of keeping her memory fresh and sacred, and the risks of looking like he meant to erase it in favor of his brown-skinned, baseborn second wife.

Like most of what Tyrion said, it was infuriating, but true. As he'd predicted, lords across the Seven Kingdoms began their plotting before Dany’s pyre had even gone cold. Rumors about Irri sprouted like mushrooms after a rain, all meant to undermine her legitimacy. She had murdered Daenerys to seize power for herself and the Dothraki. Jon was not the father of their children. The oarsman who slew Dany was the victim of some night of vile debauchery. Irri took part and lied about it, and ordered the murder of a ship’s captain to cover it up. And on, and on, and on. There were attempts to poison her, to frame her for treason, to seduce Jon into setting her aside, and to align the Small Council against her. It had taken nearly ten years of the very sort of intrigue that Jon despised and that had gotten his uncle murdered, but the whispers of rebellion seemed to have finally been quashed.

But despite it all, the Seven Kingdoms entered autumn remarkably peaceful and prosperous. With Dany no longer alive to unify the people of Westeros with the foreigners she’d brought with her, Irri and Missandei insisted that the only other way to keep the continent together was to let the Easterners prove they belonged there. They passed reforms that forbade lords from denying merchants the right to sell goods on account of their ancestry. They expanded the institution of knighthood, and the rights to hold land that came with it, so it was no longer reserved for warriors who followed the Seven, but to anyone of any faith who contributed to the prosperity of the Realm. They threw unfathomable sums of gold at the Citadel to erect libraries and houses of learning across the continent. And they encouraged intermarriage at every chance they got.

And it was working. The sons of the men who were decried as a horde of savages when Dany first returned were merchants and builders and shopkeepers. The Freedmen were maesters and singers and customs officers. Bowls of brown had nearly disappeared from the winesinks of Flea Bottom, replaced by skewered meats so delicious that Jon often wished he could sneak out of the Red Keep and order a stick like anyone else.

Some Easterners had married into highborn families, and there were a small but growing number of nobles with brown skin and foreign names. Jon knew that some men of ancient blood still looked down upon the newcomers, especially in the North, which pained him, and gave him a deal of shame. But men guarded their tongues around him, knowing that two of those brown-skinned nobles were his children.

Jon knew all too well that the harmony was fragile. Winter would bring squabbles over food and firewood, and accusations of favoritism no matter what he did. _The granaries are as stocked as they get,_ he reminded himself. _You’ve done all you can._ But it was little comfort. _You should have built more granaries._ Despite the years of remedial beatings from two different women, he still thought too much.

He prayed silently to one of the larger statues as he passed. _Have we pleased Your Grace?_ _Have we built the world you wanted?_ He began to choke up, and thought he felt a kiss on his forehead. _We are still yours to command. Always. Forever._

The second kiss was heavier, and landed on the bridge of his nose. _Mmm, yes, spit in my face._ He looked up to find a rain cloud instead of his Queen. _Right._ He was starving, as all he’d eaten for breakfast was a strip of bacon he stole from Sam’s plate while he wasn’t looking. _I need to eat. I'm losing my wits._ To beat the storm, and get somewhere he hoped had food, he commanded his guards to follow and put his heels to his horse.

They reached the top of Rhaenys’s Hill, where the Dragon Pit once stood, just as the skies opened up. Daenerys had the pit torn down when she captured the city to remove the symbol of her ancestors’ misrule, and because she refused to ever put her children back in chains. In its place, and sprawling onto a massive rock wall that had been built to widen and flatten the top of the hill, was a newly-constructed and maddeningly expensive fortress that housed the King’s Landing garrison of the Royal Army.

Calling it “the one good idea Joffrey ever had,” Tyrion pushed for a single standing army loyal solely to the Crown, and Jon agreed that Joff might have been onto something. They filled its ranks by offering a higher wage than a young commoner was like to find anywhere else, the chance to learn a trade, and the prospect of seeing the world beyond the patch of dirt they’d been born on.

Some lords derided it as the “Royal Sellsword Company,” but loyalty had never been a problem. The men who came to them had no great love for their lieges, and were split into units according to their skills and the Army’s needs. No single unit had an excess of men from the same place, and as far as Jon could tell, most of them preferred to stay loyal to those who gave them a chance at a better life, not some lord who would send them to war for his own vanity and expect them to fight for free.

Jon dismounted in the courtyard and met Jhogo, who had taken up residence in the fortress, and commanded its cavalry. The autumn rain was cold and unpleasant, and it was getting muddy, so Jon stopped him before he could kneel and motioned for them to follow him inside to the main tower.

“No _Khaleesi?_ ” Jhogo asked, as soon as they were inside. He smiled when he said it, but Jon could sense his disappointment. _No, just the pouty milk man._ Irri was almost as loved among the Dothraki as Dany had been. The simple fact that she still had her head, and the crown on top of it, was a testament to how far they’d come as a people, and to their strength and wisdom and right to be treated as equals. _She’s also charming, and gorgeous, and loves her people just as much._ That helped.

“Her Grace is holding court this morning,” Jon smiled back. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.” He thought of explaining why it might be for the better, but held his tongue. For as fine a Queen as she was, Irri was no expert on the ways of war, nor was she keen on learning. She could think of endless things to do with an army, but left her advisors to puzzle out how to do them, treating them as if it could all be done through sheer force of will. _Where could she possibly have gotten that from?_

The soldiers formed up in the bailey, and the more of them he saw, the more he looked back at the first true battle he fought and marveled that he was still alive. This was not the sad, tired pack of Wildlings and Lady Mormont’s leavings that he'd led against Ramsay Bolton. These men learned discipline from the Unsullied, and while they would never share the eunuchs’ inhuman obedience, they were smooth, skilled, and efficient enough to do a damned good imitation. But while the Royal Army was growing, it was still small, and could not stand alone against an alliance of Lords Paramount like the one that toppled Aerys. _One day, though…_

The inspection was mainly to lift men’s spirits, and give them an excuse to see the King. They had grown bored and restless with training in King’s Landing, rarely venturing more than a few leagues beyond. _Would they rather I send them off to die somewhere?_ Jon wondered. _Yes. They would. Because they don’t know any better._

After some small talk with the men, and a sincere but trite speech about how important they were to keeping the peace, Jon spent the better part of two hours discussing food stores, weapons production, and which of the Realm parts needed more forts. He used to despise this part of ruling, as it reminded him of his time as Lord Commander. But in some strange way, he’d grown to love it. Jon was still quite good with a sword, but galloping across a field, screaming and hacking away with Longclaw no longer seemed as glorious as it once did. He’d rather have an army that was too well-armed, too well-fed, and too well-disciplined to make anyone want to challenge him at all.

He may not have needed to bother raising an army if he were willing to use the dragons like Daenerys had. They knew who and what he was, and he’d ridden them, but he was loathe to ever use them as a weapon. _The world has known enough fear._ Dany needed to rule with a bit of fear, especially when she first came to Westeros. She was a young woman, five feet tall, and by all rights should have been rotting in the Red Waste. The dragons helped her command respect, but Jon commanded respect for his own reasons. And above all, he still felt as if they were not his to command. Jon would visit Dragonstone twice a year to ride and play with them, and burn an army of sheep for practice, in case he ever ran out of options. But otherwise, they led pampered lives, and ranged as they pleased.

The rain had let up to a tolerable drizzle by the time he saddled up and rode back through Flea Bottom toward the Red Keep. The storm had driven most people inside, and the streets were remarkably quiet, free of hawkers and drunks and squalling children.

From around a corner, he could hear a man speaking. He wasn’t very loud, and Jon could not make out what he was saying, but his cadence was sweeping and passionate, like he were rallying soldiers for battle.

The first of his guards rounded the bend, just as the man’s words and Riverlands accent became clear. “...The blood of the Dragon should not--” was all he could make out before the man fell silent. _He saw the guards and thought better of it._

The man was about fifty, and wore roughspun with no shoes, despite the ground being cold and filthy. Around his neck dangled a seven-pointed star. _Odd, for this part of town._ There was a small crowd of Dothraki around him, and Jon spotted a few more scattering into alleys as he came into view.

_Go on. What shouldn’t I do?_ Jon asked with his eyes as he passed. He had his guesses, and for half a heartbeat thought of stopping to ask. The man made a point of looking unafraid, and Jon gave back what he got, but said nothing. _I won't challenge you._ It would be unkingly to start a street fight with an old man.

Jon wondered if he should tell his Hand first, before troubling anyone else with it. _No,_ he decided, _he’s new. He should learn from the others._ Lord Davos had passed away quietly in his sleep six months prior; a peaceful death he'd earned many times over. Jon rode for The Gift the day after the funeral, in search of the last living man who had been with him from the beginning.

The man rolled his eyes when Jon arrived at his cottage. “Oh, bugger me. _What_.” There was no kneeling for the King, no salutation, not even a smile for an old friend.

Jon had expected that. “Edd Tollett, I would name you Hand of the King.”

Edd had laughed like a madman, having decided long ago that if his life were to be a series of cruel japes from the gods, he may as well enjoy them. “I wouldn't.” But it wasn’t his decision, and they rode for King’s Landing the next morning.

Jon arrived at the Red Keep and entered the Small Council chamber. His Dolorous Hand was there, as was Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, and Lady Martell. But his eyes went straight to his sweet _Khaleesi_ at the head of table, crowned, smiling, and atrociously beautiful.

The shyness that plagued her when she was younger was gone. Her face, her voice, and the way she carried herself all spoke of a woman who had struggled and suffered and worked for her crown; who knew what it was like to be a slave, a mother, a widow, a victim, and target; and who was still the fucking Queen despite it all.

She would never be as ruthless as Daenerys, but Daenerys could be too ruthless for her own good. Where Dany would shout from the back of a dragon, sacking city after city, Irri stuck to carefully chosen words and simple, sound governance, and won her right to the Iron Throne man, by man, by man. And in choosing those words and giving those men the flattery, justice, bribes, and threats they needed, Irri had grown wise, thick-skinned, and quick on her feet. The Small Council that once terrified her were now unquestionably in her service, and had learned she was not to be underestimated.

Jon’s blood, his deeds, and the fact that he happened to have been born with a cock between his legs, did not mean what they once did. They were still useful in stifling outright rebellion, but with every lord who came into her debt, Irri gave the Realm one more reason to keep their oath of fealty to her, Jon or no Jon.

_Yes, all very impressive._ But his thoughts wandered once again to her body. It had never given him cause to complain, but she was no longer the girl of nineteen she’d been when they met. That girl was effortlessly perfect. Ten years and two children meant her perfection was no longer so effortless, but the hours of swimming and riding and water dancing every day, and her refusal to overindulge in food or drink, put the girl of nineteen to shame.

Under the riding pants were thighs that could crack his skull open like a nut. He could bounce coins off of her ass and stomach, and they would sail right back into his hand like a mummer’s trick. A cruel mummer’s trick, that drove him mad with lust and put him entirely at her mercy, where they both knew he belonged. She could truly scare him when she flexed her arms, which were strong enough to knock some men half her age into the dust.

With the mind of a Queen and the body of a goddess came the confidence that she had lacked when Daenerys first raised her from a handmaiden. _It’s not the thighs. It’s the confidence._ She ruled Jon as wisely as she ruled the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but with him, she could indulge the cruelty that her crown had sparked in her, just enough to make them both crave it like an animal craves meat.

He gave her a brief but wanton look as he sat between her and Edd, which she acknowledged and returned, before they both moved on to the business at hand.

“How are the men, my love?” The _Khaleesi_ asked _._

“They were clamoring for you.” Jon smiled. He realized he still hadn’t eaten, so he grabbed an apple from the center of the table and tore into it. “I was a poor substitute,” he continued, with his mouth full. Irri gave him a look. _I’m sorry._ He swallowed. “But they’re well. They’re ready for winter.”

Irri smiled. “Good.” Jon opened his mouth and took a breath, but hesitated, uncertain if he should even mention it. “Is something wrong?”

_How do I say this?_ “I saw a septon from the Riverlands in roughspun on a corner, with a crowd around him, that’s all. But they did us no harm.”

Tyrion sat up in his chair across from them. “What was he talking about?” His voice was raspier than it used to be, and he seemed to always be in a mild agony when he moved. _Stop drinking so much. We need you._ Tyrion had no formal position on the Small Council, but the six months he spent at Casterly Rock after Daenerys died had bored him out of his wits, and Jon and Irri would have been fools not to listen to his counsel.

“I couldn't hear.” _Best leave it at that._ He would prefer not to involve the Goldcloaks and little birds until it was plainly necessary. “It seemed innocent.”

“This was in Flea Bottom?” Tyrion was uncharacteristically grave about it.

“It was.”

“Then it wasn’t innocent.” Tyrion recounted what happened the last time septons in roughspun cropped up on the streets of King’s Landing, and what happened to his sister because of it. “They won’t be fool enough to call you an infidel as you ride past, but that septon did not choose that corner on a whim.”

Irri looked concerned, as did Missandei next to her. “Are you saying they would harm my people, Lord Tyrion?” She knew that was precisely what he was saying. _She just wants to make him say it._

“I’m saying they’ll convince half your people to harm the other half, Your Grace.”

“And they mean to restore the Faith to what it was before Daenerys drove the High Septon from the city,” Irri assumed.

Tyrion nodded. “And to restore the Dothraki to what they were, as well. Savages who could hold no lands or titles, or gain wealth, or pass anything on to their children.”

“And what are we to do about this?” Asked Missandei. “We can’t say that men can keep any gods they choose, save for the ones that most in the Realm have chosen.”

“We can’t,” Tyrion agreed, “but we _can_ forbid men from gathering in crowds on street corners. It’s not safe, and it blocks traffic.”

“This whole city is men gathered on street corners blocking traffic,” Edd piped up. _He’s right, though._ “Some Dornishman shows up on a corner with a sack of oranges, and no one can get anywhere all afternoon.” _You made a good point, just leave it there._ “Most of the time they’re not even good oranges.” _Bugger._ “All seeds and skin. Everyone thinks Dorne is much closer than it is, but it’s too far to ship a good orange.” _Duly noted. Shut up._ “Beautiful scheme they’ve got goin’, though. Take all their rotten, dried up oranges and sell ‘em for a fortune up here, where no one knows any better.”

Jon shot Lady Martell an apologetic look. Edd meant to cast no aspersions on the Dornish; merely to lament that he had missed his chance to become an unscrupulous orange merchant. He had no notion that a Dornish person may take offense, but the Dornish loved nothing better than to do just that.

“Grapefruit, though--”

“Right.” Jon put a hand on his arm and cut him off, just in time to stop Arianne from unleashing hell. He was plainly uncomfortable, and Irri restrained a smile. _I know what you’re smiling at,_ he smiled back. _Enough of this. Come to bed, and make me far more uncomfortable._ “This is a difficult problem. Let’s all take a day and think, else we’ll tie ourselves in knots over it. You’re dismissed.”

Irri looked straight ahead as they walked quickly back to their bedchamber, flanked by two guards. Her voice was calm, and her face bespoke a quiet confidence, but he knew it was masking something. “You're not going to let him tear my Realm apart over oranges, are you?” _‘Her’ Realm. I serve at her pleasure._

“Not the rotten ones.” Jon tried to jape.

“Good, then all we need fear are the fanatic septons who want to murder us for heresy, and the Dothraki who want to help them, and other Dothraki who will want to murder them back, and then murder me for not wanting to murder the septons badly enough.”

Jon let out a laugh that quickly turned into a sigh. “It never ends, my love.”

“Yes it does.” A blush crept onto Irri’s face.

Jon played the fool, because that was the game. "I don't know what you mean by that." _She's calling me a slut in her mind._ Irri flashed a crooked grin. _There it is._ He could nearly hear it. _‘Slut.’_ He blushed a bit, took her hand, and ran his thumb across her palm.

“You know precisely what it means.” She squeezed his hand, stopping it in its tracks, because that thumb wasn’t his to do with as he pleased.

“All I did was end a meeting…”

“So we could be alone.”

His face was bright red by then. “I will not demean my crown by responding to such innuendo.”

“Shall I demean it for you, then?” Irri could barely contain herself by the time they reached the door to their bedchamber. “Get in there.” She slapped his ass playfully. “Slut.”

The guards remained outside when they entered the bedchamber. Irri kicked the door shut, snatched the crown from his slutty head, and tossed it onto the mattress. Jon knew precisely what came next. By now, it came to him without thinking. He hurried toward Irri’s bedside table and removed the whip and manacles from her drawer.

The whip was coiled perfectly, as he’d left it the day before. Neither he nor Irri cared about neatness as fanatically as Dany did, but Irri made a point to ensure that Jon treated their toys as if she were still alive. It was a gesture of respect for her memory, and a convenient rule that helped Jon remember to treat her property with care. She also liked having him bring her the things she would use to hurt him, because it helped him remember his place. _She’s also lazy._ But he adored that. It gave him a chance to make her life easier. To please her, and serve her, and make her life as a handmaiden seem that much more a distant memory. _She’s earned a bit of laziness._

Jon knelt in his spot beneath where the manacles would go, and placed them on the floor for later. Irri pulled up a chair and sat in front of him, cross-legged. “You’re an eager boy today.” She smiled as he offered her the whip, laying it flat in his palms as she’d taught him.

Jon smiled back and nodded. “Yes, _Khaleesi._ I hope that pleases you.” He wanted to beg for his beating, but he’d learned that constant begging was presumptuous, and a sign he was thinking of his own pleasure before hers. _When she wants me to beg, I’ll know._

She took the whip from his hands, rested it it in her lap, and nodded. _I may unlace her boots._ So many things went without saying, now. Irri would never hesitate to challenge him, or leave him guessing if it pleased her, but she insisted that certain things be the same every time. It gave him a sense of order and comfort, and it reminded him how far he’d come. _I’m home, now._ He’d never felt closer to another person. Ever. Even Dany. _She was too brilliant and too mad for anyone to truly understand her. The woman barely understood herself._

Neither brilliant nor mad, the _Khaleesi_ worked at her greatness like she worked at her body, and in ten years had never once given him cause to doubt her concern for his welfare above all. There were occasions when she hit him too hard, or grew too harsh with him too quickly, but she always sensed it, pulled herself out of the trance, and tended to him. In teaching him to put her comfort before his, she learned to put his before hers. Dany conquered him, but Irri absorbed him. Dany taught him to do her bidding, but Irri made them into one person. His bidding was hers, and hers was his, and doing one meant doing the other.

He could feel her presence in his fingers as he unlaced her boots, guiding them through it as she’d done a thousand times before. It was a simple task, but it filled his mind nonetheless. _All the rest can wait._ He forgot what the rest even was. _Oranges...septons...something. Stop. Take her boots off._ His gratitude for her stripping all that away made him warm inside.

When he finished with the laces, he held the boot at the precise angle to make it easiest to slide her foot out. He tied the laces loosely around each other so they weren’t simply strewn all over the floor, took her sock off, and placed it inside the boot. He repeated it all with the other one, happily, peacefully, patiently, in no hurry, despite the dull pain of his cock growing in his breeches.

Irri snatched the second sock from his hand as he was about to put it into her boot, and shoved it under his nose. “You are the sweetest little creature, do you know that?”

This was a treat, and Jon inhaled in grateful acceptance. With anyone else, it would disgust him, but with her, it made his mouth water. He loved how it made him feel so debased. It was the strongest, plainest gesture of where he'd chosen to place himself in relation to her. He was filth, clinging to her presence. Fit to be wiped away at any moment, unless he could prove why she should keep him.

But it was more than that. It said as much about her as it did him. It wasn't the scent of a goddess or a Queen or an animal in heat. It was the scent of a person. A person with a flawed and mortal body, who walked and perspired and got dirty, just like anyone else. It reminded him that he had surrendered himself to a living woman; not some vision he conjured up while he was still half a boy and diddling his cock one night. _Living women make mistakes. They fail. They do things they may come to regret. She's done all of that before and she'll do it again. You must help her however you can, as she helps you._

Jon nodded and purred, savoring the joy of being her sweet little creature. She pressed her sock against his nose and giggled as she watched him try to squirm away, breathing in greedily regardless.

“Enough.” She slapped him lightly and shooed him away. He rose and took her boots, placing them by her side of the bed. _‘Because handmaidens work hard enough, and they shouldn't have to clean up after slutty boys like you.’_

He returned to his place at her feet. Irri stuck one in his face and the other between his legs. Jon knew what to do.

“Your Hand is a good man, but a fool,” Irri told him, as he took in her scent and kissed adoringly. Jon had come to the same conclusion, and wondered if he should not have simply given Tyrion the pin.

“I know, I’m sorry, _Khaleesi._ ”

She pressed her heel into his crotch. “He offended Lady Martell with his bleating about fruit.”

Jon winced. He loved when she made him wince, but this was a warning, not an indulgence. “I’m sorry, _Khaleesi,_ I will apologize to her.”

She ground her other foot into his face to emphasize the point. “And you will speak to Edd.” Her tone was firm. Jon sensed a disappointment that she had to spend time lecturing him on the matter. “I will not abide petty slights on my Small Council.” _You’re right, I should know better._

“Yes, _Khaleesi,_ I’ll speak to him.” And he would. And he, and Edd, and the Realm, would be better off for it. Jon always found himself in awe of how Irri seemed to know precisely how much to demand of him; how to keep him in just enough fear of her to make him demand more of himself, and how to bring order to everything around her.

Irri stood, motioned for him to rise, and locked eyes with him. “Strip.” She kept her own clothes on, and watched closely as Jon obeyed her command, moving fast enough to keep her from growing impatient, but not so fast as to appear too eager or grow sloppy.

“We have zealots in the city now.” Her eyes showed a genuine worry, as she helped him with his breeches. “That scares me more than a siege outside our walls. Dragons can burn a rebel army, but they’re of no use when the rebels are hiding in our own home.”

Once Jon was finally naked, he put his arms in front of him, awaiting his manacles. “We have the common people on our side, _Khaleesi_. Far more than they do. We will get through it, I promise.”

“I saw what men like this did to Daenerys in Meereen,” she reminded him, clapping the manacles around his wrists. “It crippled her as a Queen. They nearly assassinated her.”

Jon dropped his wrists. He hated that word. Assassination was for men in books who died a thousand years ago, who marked the end of some long-gone dynasty, or started some war that the maesters blathered on about but no one else remembered. But Jon had known it twice, and each time, it turned his life to ashes.

Irri sensed his pain, and placed her hands lightly over the scars on his stomach. “I’m sorry, my love.” There were some wounds that he loved for her to prod at, but not those were not among them. She ran her hands up to his chest, stood on her toes, and kissed him. “I did not mean to say it that way.”

He nodded. “I know, _Khaleesi._ ”

“And you know what I did mean, so I won’t dwell on it.” Irri looked in his eyes to make certain he could still go on. _Yes. Do it._ She set up the rope and pulley and raised his arms into the air, finally securing him where he belonged. “We’ll speak later of how to put these men in their place.” Her smile crept back onto her face. “For now, let's put you in yours.” The thought flooded his mind and washed the sorrow away in a heartbeat. _Yes, yes, please, yes._

He blushed, smiled, and nodded eagerly. “Thank you, _Khaleesi._ ”

Irri gave him that look she got when her cunt had begun to stir, then moved behind him and cracked her whip against the floor. “The pleasure is all mine, sweetling.” _Yes,_ Khaleesi _. All yours._ Irri had taken to calling Jon by that name shortly after Daenerys died. Dany called him “Bastard,” but that never felt right for her. Irri was of far lower birth than either of them, and took no pleasure in mocking a man for growing up in slightly less obscene wealth than he should have.

“Sweetling,” however, fit perfectly. It was what Dany called her, and it made her feel small and weak, but loved and protected. Inferior, but cherished.

Irri had grown tired of that, but Jon needed it desperately. He'd realized that he was well-aware of what he was good at in life, but spent too much time raging at the world, and himself, over his shortcomings. When he was her sweetling, he could let go of that, and accept himself for who he was. He'd done more than enough protecting for one man, and needed a place to let that burden off his shoulders.

Jon grunted as the whip struck his back. Forceful, but measured, just like the woman who gave it to him. Some men soothed themselves with hot baths, but Jon always got restless simply sitting in a tub. Some men had a cup of wine and read by the fire, but Jon always found reading a bit of a chore, and his life had taught him more lessons than he cared to learn. Instead, this was where he found peace. Pain was his peace, and his respite. It wiped his mind clean of traitors and zealots and Edd and his fucking oranges.

The first two lashes were simply to remind him that the weight of his crown was gone. She'd stripped it from his head, and his mind, and for as long as they were alone together, it could give him neither burdens nor rights.

With the third, came the discipline.

“Have you trained yet today?” Irri asked, as soon as he stopped shuddering from the impact.

“No, _Khaleesi._ ”

She knew he hadn't, and that he had not meant to hide that from her.

Another lash. “Why not?” She knew the answer to that, too.

“I had to visit the barracks, _Khaleesi._ ”

One more. Harder. _The next one will be a command, not a question._ He'd learned to read her mind by the tip of the leather. “You'll go once I’m done with you, yes?”

He sucked his breath through his teeth and grunted. “Yes, _Khaleesi!_ ”

“Good. Five, so you remember.” The next one came quicker. “ _Count!_ ”

He counted each one, thanked her, and begged politely for one more, until the fifth. _She told you five. Don’t get greedy._ So he thanked her, but said nothing further.

Irri walked around in front of him, picking a sock out of her boots along the way. “You had a strip of bacon this morning,” she informed him, as she pinched and twisted a nipple.

_How does she know these things?_ He nodded sheepishly. “Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” For a moment, he wanted to launch into a sermon on why he should be allowed to, but he knew that would lead nowhere good.

“From Sam’s plate.” _Sam._ It had to be him. _The man counts his bloody bacon,_ Jon wagered. _If anyone counts his bacon, it's Samwell Tarly._

She smiled crookedly and began toying with his cock. It was already growing hard, but the soft tips of her fingers up his shaft finished it. “While he wasn't looking!” The smile on the _Khaleesi_ ’s face compelled one out of him as well.

Jon blushed and nodded. “It’s true, _Khaleesi_...” he laughed softly.

For two or three heartbeats, Irri chuckled along. Then came an utterly humorless slap to his face.

“Are you a feral dog?!” Her grip on his cock grew tight and terrifying. _She hates when I do things like that._ That was no secret, yet he still let her lull him into complacency. _I must get better at that._

“No, _Khaleesi,_ I’m sorry!”

She tugged and twisted. “What are you, then?!”

“I’m the King of Westeros!” _I can call for whatever I want, and people will bring it to me._ He still forgot that sometimes.

She slapped him again. “That’s _who_ you are _._ That’s not what I asked.” She put a hand on his throat. “ _What_ are you?”

“I'm your sweetling!” _Your crown is worth shit in here._ Ten years, and it was still the simplest questions that tripped him up. “I'm your slut! I'm your good boy!”

She tightened her tiny, delicate hand around his throat. It constricted his breath, but not nearly enough for him to fear being strangled. But that wasn't what she wanted him to fear. _It's my own lust for this. How deep inside me she truly is. How it tears me up when I displease her._

“Do good boys eat other men's scraps?”

Jon shook his head, wide-eyed.

Her grip grew tighter, and her other hand made a fist just as tight around his balls, as she reached the heart of the matter. “Does _my_ good boy eat bacon without my leave?!” Her voice was more of a growl. The game was over.

He shook his head again. “No, _Khaleesi,_ I’m sorry. I--”

Irri released her hand from Jon’s throat, slapped him again, and stuffed the sock into his mouth. “Enough words for you. It will be ten for that. Do it again, and I’ll give you something you don’t love so much. Do you hear me, slut?”

Jon nodded as Irri tugged his balls and returned to her place behind him. She stayed silent as she lashed him; they were harder than before, but deliberate, and she took her time between them. _So I may think._ And he did.

_One._ He grunted and writhed. _Care for her property._ He closed his eyes. 

_Two._ He bit down on the sock that gagged him. _Like you do with the whip._ He breathed in through his nose, and braced for the next one.

_Three._ His back was growing sensitive, and his body tried to wiggle away on reflex, but as always, it was futile. _Your body is her property._ And her property had endured worse, so he summoned the strength to take his beating like a man.

_Four._ He whimpered a bit, but that was okay. Men whimpered sometimes, and he no longer felt shame in that. _Bacon makes you fat._ He slumped his head and flexed the muscles in his back, offering more of himself to her.

_Five._ He whimpered again, but knew he wasn't done. _You didn’t care for her property._ He was far more ashamed of that than the whimpering.

_Six._ A tear rolled down his cheek. _She can always get another whip._ It dawned on him how careless and disrespectful he’d been.

_Seven._ And how it must have hurt her to find out. _She can’t replace you._ She wanted him to live a long, healthy life. She didn't want to lose him. _Can't you see that?_

_Eight._ The sting lingered with him this time. _She loves you._ His skin felt like it was burning.

_Nine._ He began to cry, but could not say if it was from the pain or the shame. _She deserves better than that. You’re better than that._ He begged with his mind for the next lash, for the pain to be over, and for one more chance to show her how sorry he was.

_Ten._ His knees gave out. _Care for her fucking property!_ He hoped she could see that he’d learned. He could feel Irri’s soft hand on his back as his body dangled just above the floor.

“Are you alright, my love?” She suddenly appeared in front of him.

Jon nodded. He was near his limit, but not near enough to tell her to stop.

She kissed him. “If you want bacon, ask me. If you've been eating well otherwise, I'll let you have it. But don't _ever_ hide it from me, understood?”

He nodded once more. _I’ll never eat bacon again,_ he thought. _No, that’s silly. Don’t promise that. She said you can ask. Remember that. Trust her._ Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to stay exactly where he was and bask in how loved and safe and cherished she made him feel.

Something lit up in her eyes. She grinned, and removed the sock from his mouth. “Five more, just because?” There was a hint of begging in the way she smiled at him.

The respite and the kiss had restored his strength, and he wanted a challenge. He wanted to show her what a whore for the pain he truly was. “Please, _Khaleesi._ ” He looked at her, not realizing until his eyes met hers how wanton his grin must have been. _You slutty, slutty boy._ He loved being her slutty boy. He wanted to be her slutty boy forever.

The lashes came again, and the fifth finally exhausted him. Irri unchained him, and he leaned on her as he hobbled back to bed. She laid him down, kissed him, stroked his hair, and knelt between his legs.

Jon was too weak to do much else but let his head sink into the pillow, close his eyes, and gently stroke his _Khaleesi_ ’s head as she took him into her mouth. But that was all he wanted to do. Ten minutes ago, he may have wanted to grab her hair, or let her bring him close and then pull her off and fuck her until her mind was just as wiped as his. But not now. _You earned this. Let her do what she will, as always._

If Irri had been half as good with Dany's cunt as she was with Jon’s cock, he would have crowned her a thousand times over while they were still on that boat from Qarth. Her tongue did things he didn't know a human tongue could do, and it felt like his cock was engulfed in some cruel trap that sucked and stroked and teased the life out of him.

Almost as if he were trying to escape, but not quite, his other hand joined the first at the back of her head as his hips began to grind. Foolishly, but powerless to stop himself, he tightened his grip and softly guided her head down deeper.

Suddenly, she pulled her head up, gently reminding him along the way that she had teeth. “Did I give you leave to touch me?!”

Jon could feel her gaze pierce straight through his eyelids, and opened them to find his _Khaleesi_ staring up at him, firmly, but only thinly masking her excitement for the torture he'd just given her cause to inflict.

“No, _Khaleesi,_ ” he remembered the Common Tongue just in time.

“Hands behind your head. _Now._ ” Jon obeyed. She dug her nails into his shaft. “You forget yourself, whore. Touch me again before I'm done with you, and I will lock this up, hide the key, and play with my cunt while you scurry about looking for it. Understood?”

Prior experience having given him reason to believe her, Jon gave her the weakest, most obedient look he could muster. “Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

“And watch me.”

That sort of torment was as bad as anything she could do to him in chains. He watched as her head moved up and down, each movement precise and intuitive, as she'd long ago mastered his cock and its weaknesses. Her lips and tongue made the beast inside him grow wild again, and more and more he wanted to flip her over and tell her what he thought of her rules with a savage pounding to her savage little cunt.

But he knew nothing good would come of that. It wasn't the cage he feared, though he'd hate every minute of that. It was her pain and disappointment. It would mean he failed her. That for a fleeting moment of pleasure, he took away the one bit of power that she trusted no one would snatch away from her. That all the work he'd done to be the kind of man she could trust so completely was for naught.

_Freedom is harder than chains._ At least for him, and at least with her. Jon suspected that was the lesson. _But good men do what's hard._ He'd known that since he was a child, and learned it many times over. _You've grown far too pampered if the hardest thing you do today is get your cock sucked. Grit your teeth and bear it._

So he gritted his teeth and bore it. He kept his hands behind his head until his cock was ready to burst, then slammed them down on the mattress, curling his fingers to grip the sheets and show his _Khaleesi_ that he could still obey her. His eyes stayed open until his body simply refused to allow it. As soon as they closed, he arched his back, screamed in ecstasy, and let his seed erupt down her throat; one burst after another, after another, after another, after another, after another. His strength left him again, as he floated on top of the mattress in blissful silence. 

After what felt like only moment, but may have been longer, Jon felt a playful tug on his earlobe. “No naps, sweetling,” Irri whispered. “The children will be here soon, and you have training to do.”

That was enough to knock him out of the trance. Jon groaned and sat up. His body was still weak, but he could feel the strength forcing its way back into his muscles.

Irri smiled from the bed as Jon pissed and dressed. When he was done, she hopped off and put the crown back on his head. The game was near its end, but Irri found it deeply satisfying to see him wear the crown while he put their toys away, fixed their pillows, and smoothed out the sheets. _King, but still her servant._ He loved it, too. He hoped he would never become the sort of King who forgot how to be a servant.

He moved Irri’s chair back to the table and sat. Irri climbed on top of him, and they managed to fit in another minute of shameless kissing and grinding before the knock came at the door.

“Your Grace?” Sam shouted through the door. _Bacon traitor._

Irri dismounted, and Jon bid them enter. The children came first, bursting into the room like hounds being freed from a cage.

Aemon was a boy of eight, with light brown skin, and a hint of Jon’s curls in his hair when it grew long enough. His long Stark face gave him a natural solemnity that was almost comical for a child. He’d been pestering his father to let him train with real swords from the day he was old enough to pick one up, and would brood when he didn’t get his way. It gave Jon a greater appreciation for the Starks, for putting up with the same nonsense from him for fourteen years.

Choosing Aemon’s name had been an exercise in politics and patience. Jon wanted to give his eldest child a Valyrian name, as he and Irri both wanted to keep their promise to give Daenerys the child she never had. But when word of that got out, every pair of smallclothes in the North bunched up in unison. Jon had forgotten where he came from, they insisted, and he and his savage wife were still doing the bidding of a mad, dead whore. They demanded he name his son Eddard, for understandable reasons. Were Dany not a consideration, he may well have done it, but their petulance made him rule it out immediately. He spent enough time doing duties to other people, and wanted to keep one part of his life for himself. _They'd lecture me on the proper Northern way to wipe my ass if they could._

But Sansa guilted him about it, and Davos gave a dutiful sermon on why she was right, so as a compromise, he named the child after the beloved maester of Castle Black. Tyrion called it brilliant, since Aemon was a rare Targaryen with no lust for power, and no Northerner could complain about naming the boy after a man who had given so much to the Night’s Watch. Tyrion Lannister’s compulsion to praise the name as a wondrous machination only annoyed him further, but once the rumblings were done, Jon grew to love the name almost as much as the child.

Had he known about his daughter, he may not have been so stubborn about giving Daenerys her due. Vazzi was six, and would grow into a dangerously beautiful woman. She looked like a small version of Irri, but her almond-shaped eyes were the dark purple that ran in Jon’s blood. “This one will bat her eyelashes and start wars,” Jon had warned his wife, as soon as Sam placed the baby in his arms for the first time. The Princess had given him no cause to doubt that.

Her name was a form of the Dothraki word _vazyol,_ which meant stormborn, and could not have been more fitting. He could not say how, but he could swear that the Mother of Dragons had come back from the dead and fucked a baby into his wife while he was holding court. Vazzi was iron-willed, smart beyond her years, convinced beyond all doubt that she was ready to sit the Iron Throne that afternoon, and abided no suggestion to the contrary. She had already crafted her governing agenda, most of which revolved around cake, bedtime, and royal decrees that her brother was stupid, or dirty, or both.

Before his children, Jon always found it silly how much everyone made of his blood, as if a piece of paper could change him into an entirely different person. He never felt any different, and always grew uncomfortable and annoyed when Dany would speak of what “the Dragon” would do about this problem or that, as if she knew him better than he did. _She did, but that’s beside the point._ But once Aemon was born, he found himself far more willing to be as harsh and ruthless as Dany had ever been to her worst enemies, at least so far as it concerned keeping his children from harm.

“Father!” Aemon jumped into his lap, as Vazzi hugged her mother and recounted various nuances of her morning lessons that Sam had gotten wrong.

Jon smiled brightly and kissed his son on the temple. “How were your lessons today?”

“Father, I don’t like sums!”

Jon laughed. _Good afternoon to you, too._ “I don’t like sums either! They’re stupid,” he mocked Aemon’s passion playfully.

“They _are_ stupid!” Aemon concurred.

“Yes, but you need to know them.” _You would be amazed at how many stupid things you’ll have to know._ “Winter is coming, and if you want to be King, you need to know how much food you have, and how many mouths to feed, and how much it all costs. You can’t let your people go hungry.” _Else they come for your head._  

“But that's what the Hand is for!”

“No, it's the Master of Coin!” Vazzi pounded her fist and corrected him from across the table. “You don't know _anything!_ ”

“No,” Jon managed to get in edgewise, “you can’t let your Council do all the work. You need to show them you can do anything they can do, so you earn their respect.” _Else they plot treason against you._ Jon wondered when he should stop leaving those things unsaid.

Vazzi made a face, grudgingly accepting that her father might know something of the matter. Aemon pouted, angry that he had not yet managed to persuade Jon to ban counting.

Jon mussed his son’s hair and stood him up. “Get your riding clothes on. Aggo is waiting for you in the yard.” Needing no lectures on the importance of shooting straw men with arrows from horseback, Aemon sprinted from the room.

“He’s better at sums than most boys his age,” Sam assured him, once Aemon was gone. “He just sulks all the way through his lessons.”

“I wonder where he gets that from,” Irri chimed in, with a sly smile.

Jon folded his arms and put his chin to his chest. “I don’t sulk.”

Irri said nothing, but her smile promised more lashes for that.

“He’s better with history, and he can argue better than half the archmaesters at the Citadel,” Sam went on. “If he had to choose, I'd wager he'd study the law.”

_Oh, gods, no._ Those were the worst sort of people, as far as Jon was concerned, though he'd been told more than once that he had a keen sense of justice and would have excelled at it had he gone to Oldtown instead of the Wall. He wondered if he was the kind of lover he was because he secretly wanted to punish himself for being someone who would be good at studying the law. _Don't trouble yourself with that. Just take the beatings._

A guard entered. “Lord Varys, Your Grace.”

Jon sighed. “Send him in.”

The eunuch carried a roughspun sack with him, and bowed as he entered. He hesitated when he spotted Vazzi, playing with a wooden dragon. “I think it may be best if the Princess were not here for this.”

Jon was tired, and would have preferred to deal only with matters fit for a child of six, but knew he would never have that luxury. “Very well.” He grabbed his daughter, kissed her, and turned to Sam. “Find something she doesn't already know, and teach it to her. 

Sam smiled. “I'll try, Your Grace.” He took Vazzi’s hand and led her out.

“I assume these are only the happiest of tidings.” Jon smiled dryly.

Varys had that grave, disturbed look on his face that he got when he had bad news, as if it were the first time he'd ever heard bad news, despite his entire job being to collect and deliver bad news. “A shopkeeper was caught with these.” He emptied the contents of the sack. Two dolls fell face down onto the table, each about three feet in height, and filled with hay.

Jon knew what they were for. _I thought we were past this._ Irri shot him a look. “This again?”

“Your Grace, this--”

“I agree with Tyrion,” Jon cut him off. “We should quash this before the city is overrun with them. Give them a trial, and I'll execute them.”

“But--”

“And tell Lady Martell to be quick about it. It's treason to burn the King and Queen in effigy. That’s no secret.”

“Those aren’t you and the Queen, Your Grace.” Varys flipped the dolls over and showed their faces. _Oh, no, Longclaw would be far too good for them,_ Jon thought, as soon as he saw the one with purple eyes. Hanging would be even less fitting. Even the stake would not do them justice. Jon suddenly felt like a girl of five feet who should have died in the desert, and understood so much more about her than he had while she lived.

“Ready the dragons.” He had the presence of mind to speak softly, but his fury was plain.

“And get word to the garrison,” Irri added. “We’ve spent enough coin on this army, we should put it to use. They will march on the Riverlands _tonight,_ and they will go house by house, sept by sept from Saltpans to Moat Cailin, find every last one of the leaders and bring them to me for justice. Not Lady Martell, not Tyrion, not Missandei. _Me_.”

“They weren't from the Riverlands Your Grace,” Varys explained, just in time to catch Irri while she still cared. “They were Dothraki.” Irri was plainly shocked, and more fearful than she cared to show. “They're already among us.” _And how, precisely, did you miss this?_

Varys turned to Jon. “If they're recruiting men from inside the city, the dragons won't--” 

_Bugger that. I'm the only living man with the right to speak of this._ Jon stood, kicked the chair to the floor behind him, and put his finger right in Varys’s smooth, perfumed face. “I said, unless you'd like to be part of the feast when they get here, ready the _FUCKING_ dragons!”


	2. Irri I

_I will never understand how a man like Jon could come from this place._ Irri despised Winterfell, and were it not for her husband, she would gladly let the North bugger off and become its own Kingdom again. _The last three hundred years were all shit anyway, to hear them tell it._

To Irri, it was plain from the moment they arrived that the people here regarded her no more favorably than when Daenerys had last been there; when she had to hide in the corner whilst Lyanna Mormont proclaimed, not so subtly, that Irri’s existence made Daenerys unfit to rule. _‘Filth’ was the word, if I recall correctly._ She most certainly recalled correctly.

They had arrived late in the evening. Mercifully late, sparing her the torment of a feast. Jon and Irri helped the children settle into their quarters, despite their insistence that they wanted to explore the castle. _There’s a tree, some crypts, and a dozen lords who want us dead so they can pry their daughters’ legs open for your father. There, I explored it for you._

Once their children were tucked in, they returned to their own chambers. Irri dismissed Qezza as soon as the brazier was lit, and eyed Jon silently for a moment. _If he can’t sense my mood, he’s a fool._ Jon was no fool, and dropped to his knees contritely as she sat. _Good._

“Don’t move, sweetling.” Irri opened the chest of clothes that the servants had brought up earlier, and dug through it like a madwoman until she found the cage. She made it no secret that she would much rather be in King’s Landing, but for a number of reasons, she couldn't. _If I’m not happy, he’s not happy._ And she wouldn’t be happy until Winterfell pledged to defend the Crown from rebellion.

Calling themselves the Father’s Justice, the septons in the capital had built a following, smashing the shrines to Daenerys and murdering infidels nightly in the Eastern districts. There were even some outright battles in the streets, and the Father’s Justice had grown so bold as to control who could enter and leave some parts of the city.

Their demands were simple. Irri and Jon were to convert to the Faith and repent for their years of heresy, or renounce their titles for themselves and their children. Lesser nobles were to do the same, or be stripped of their lands and incomes, no matter how modest. Irri’s reforms were to be undone, the Faith Militant restored, and the High Septon returned to his seat at the Sept of Baelor. To divide their opponents, Easterners who converted were promised holdfasts in the Riverlands. Far more holdfasts were promised than the septons could ever hope to give, but the Father’s Justice promised to take what they needed to reward the faithful.

In response, Tyrion counseled the Royal Family to leave the city, so they could deny having ordered the impending purge. The plan was modeled on Daario’s tactics in Meereen, which had failed the least badly of everything Dany had tried there. When they were gone, the Goldcloaks, Royal Army, and the loyalist Dothraki, would go house to house throughout Flea Bottom, arresting everyone who confessed to being a member of the Fathers Justice, and strongly encouraging the smallfolk to help them. Once the peace had been restored, they would do the same in the other districts.

More troubling was that some of the minor Riverlords had begun to sympathize with them. The Riverlands had never truly recovered from any of the wars since Robert Baratheon reigned, and Lady Arya had spent most of her time chasing robbers, crushing revolts by an endless line of Frey bastards, and refusing to marry anyone who might help restore peace. Irri and Jon had ridden for Winterfell in what looked less like a royal procession and more like an armored column, because that’s what it was. And despite the escort from Drogon, they had still lost three outriders under mysterious circumstances before they reached the Twins.

They would need an army that wasn’t full of men who followed the Faith, and the North was their only option. In truth, they were in Winterfell not for an alibi, but to beg. _And if I must beg, so must he._

Irri returned with the cage, stood over Jon, pushed his knees apart with her foot, and knelt to affix it. She took the small key that dangled from a thin chain around her neck, locked it, then grabbed his head and tilted his his eyes to hers. “This stays on until I have my army. Understood?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

 _Of course you understand._ Irri had noticed that Jon excelled at understanding things when his cock was caged. She found it deeply satisfying; sometimes more satisfying than when it was free. It was the power, of course, but there was more to it. Men had caused her nothing but pain her entire life. They captured her, raped her, tore her from her family, sold her, broke her will to be her own person, and ignored her. And for as fine a man and servant as Jon was, he still had it within him to do the same. The cage was Irri’s way to tame that, and use it for her advantage.

She’d come to love how he changed the longer he was locked up. At first, it would make his blood run hot, and turned him into an insatiable whore for whatever cruelty she gave him. After a few days, he would tire of it and grow insolent, until he realized he was only making it worse, and that Irri would always outlast him. Then he turned docile, loving, attentive, and free of his need as a man to pretend to be invincible. And when she finally let him out, he’d make her cunt sore for days. _When I want him to, and not a moment sooner._

WIth no patience left for teasing and rituals, Irri tossed off her nightshirt and stared down. Jon hesitated. That annoyed her, but she’d taught him not to dive between her legs without her leave. She regarded him, letting her eyes remind him one more time of her mood, then grabbed his hair and pulled him in as she collapsed into her chair. “Go.”

Like the good little cunt slut he was, Jon made his mouth useful. It was warm, wet, and hers alone, and she would never give it up. He started slow, to confirm his suspicion that she was utterly disinterested in starting slow. Irri grabbed his curls and twisted them around her fingers as she clenched her fists. “More. Faster.”

In his ten years in her service, Jon had learned every contour of Irri’s cunt so thoroughly that it was as if he’d carved a map of it in his mind. Sometimes she did want him to go slow, dragging it out all afternoon. Sometimes she wanted him to devour it like his last meal. To show her with every stroke of his tongue how deeply he worshipped and adored and needed her. Sometimes she wanted to tease him. To put it right in front of his face and make him smell it and beg until he nearly cried. To see how much she could twist him before her own lust overcame her. And sometimes she wanted to mark her property. To put him in his place and dare him to forget himself.

Tonight was one of those nights. _He needs a warning._ The lords of the North were a prickly lot, and had never truly come to terms with Irri. Lady Sansa always gave her the courtesies she was due, but Lady Sansa would do that for a pile of horse shit if it had a crown on top of it. The rest said the words and bent their knees like they were made of stone, and every move was torture. _They will simply never accept me. My accent isn’t theirs, my skin isn’t milky white, and I’m not named after some dead Stark._

Even if she could do that, she would not give them the satisfaction. _They think they can’t be conquered. I should invite them to watch this._ She wrapped her legs tightly around his head and pulled him in with all her strength. “I said _more!_ Do you think you’re no longer my cunt-licking _bitch_ when you ride through these gates?!”

Jon mumbled the correct answer into her cunt, and gave her what she demanded. He lapped away at her clit with his tongue, pressing the tip against either side of it with each stroke.

 _What else do I want? Don’t make me say it._ She squeezed her legs tighter and bucked hard against him to refresh his memory. It worked, and she felt his two fingers push inside her. _That’s my good slut._ Though he shouldn’t have needed the reminder. _I’ll be merciful. It was a long ride._

Irri slid back, giving him just enough room to drag his fingers in and out, slowly but deliberately, just as she liked it. _Yes. More._ She arched her back and closed her eyes, satisfied that Jon had not forgotten himself. With her slut doing his job, she allowed her mind to wander away from the cold, austere castle where her body found itself.

She was a goddess; a _Khal_ on the Great Grass Sea, with hundreds and thousands of men at her back, following her out of devotion, and terror, and hopeless lust for what they would never have, save for those she chose to give it to.

The whole _khalasar_ was hers to fuck and toss aside, or not. There was no Faith, no North, no grasping lords waiting to betray her. Just a horde of men and women groveling for the chance to sacrifice themselves to her cunt. Even Daenerys was there, prostrate at her feet, apologies pouring from her lips. _Have you learned yet, or must I teach you?_ When they met again in the Night Lands, she would have to prove herself worthy.

The _Khaleesi_ opened her eyes and found only one supplicant, albeit the most revered and powerful supplicant alive. _I'll make do, I suppose._ When they were alone, she would sometimes forget who he was. _He's so ordinary. Such a fucking man,_ with his shameless farting, and his insistence on leaving socks in the bed, which even the most savage beatings could only stop for a week, at most.

 _Truth, now, you love that about him._ It reminded her that she ruled a man who was not born a slave. He was free to answer to no one, if he chose. He could be a horrible tyrant, and more men than not would still call him the rightful King. He could have set her aside ten years ago, and his life would have been much easier. But he wanted none of that. _He wants to give himself to someone. To me._

After enough wine, Jhiqui and MIssandei would confess that they rather enjoyed it when a man refused to succumb to their protestations. When a man was forceful, they said, it meant he desired them so badly that he could no longer control himself. _But they don’t want you. They want a broodmare._

What Jon did meant far more to her. It was more than losing control of his lust. It was restraining the urge to lose control until she told him to lose it. It was surrendering control of everything else to her, to please her and nothing more. It meant that before she would take him into her cunt, he had to take her into his mind, and let her rule it. Most men she knew were terrified of letting anyone into their minds, but Jon let her in despite the fear because he truly desired _her,_ more than the thing between her legs.

That made the thing between her legs throb. She pulled him closer, until he knew she was done with his fingers. _Yes, boy, you finish your_ Khaleesi _with that filthy mouth of yours._ He would have to work harder that way. _Show me how hard you’ll work for me, slut._

She screamed as Jon began to devour her, and closed her eyes again. He was moaning, too. She could feel it flow through her body. “Yes, more, slut! More! _More!_ ”

Hurtling toward her peak, she ground her cunt against his face harder than his tongue could keep up with. But she no longer needed it to. It had done its job. _Mark him as yours._ That was as much her duty as a Queen as it was as his wife. _This one answers to me. Only me._ She want to forbid him from washing his face afterward. She wanted to make every lord and lady in this stupid castle smell it before they treated with her, to dispel the lie that his crown was the only one that mattered.

She would never do that, of course. Not even Daenerys was that mad. But as she arched her back and hit her peak and screamed so loudly that she couldn’t stop it from hurting, she slipped through the bars in her mind that held her back from being the ruthless tyrant that part of her secretly wished she could be from the moment the crown first touched her head.

Irri panted, her cunt thrusting against him and pulling itself back a few more times as she came down. “All over your _fucking_ face! That's what whores like you are good for.” She gave him a menacing smile, growling softly as she caught her breath and he pulled his head away to do the same.

“Yes, thank you, _Khaleesi._ ”

She took her legs off his shoulders, leaned down, kissed his forehead, and stroked his hair; her smile sweeter but no less menacing. “I’m not done with you, slut.” The sweetness disappeared as she kicked him back onto his hands.

Jon looked up at her with that delicious mix of fear and craving. _You know what I want._

Irri nodded and pointed toward the chest, her grin turning outright wicked. “Get it. _Now._ ”

Jon rose and retrieved her cock, kneeling patiently as she strapped it around her waist. She stroked it for a moment, almost as if she could feel it. In some ways, she could. Irri’s body had grown accustomed to fucking like a man fucks a woman, and from the way Jon reacted, she could sense when she was pleasing him, when he needed it harder, or when he needed mercy.

“Come here,” the _Khaleesi_ smiled and guided his head down. He licked up the shaft, at once teasing her and begging her to punish him for it, then took it into his mouth like the good little slut he was. It filled her with a strange sense of pride at how easily he took to it. Daenerys had tried to bring out this side of him, but with her, it had always shamed him. It filled his mind with silly thoughts about what it meant if he liked it too much. Whether he could still be a King. Whether it betrayed some weakness in him. Whether he’d be happier running off with some man. Whether during all that time he spent with cunts in his face, he secretly hoped to stumble upon a cock.

But he no longer cared. In the ten years he’d been her boywhore, his crown had yet to turn to dust. He had yet to find a man who swept him off his feet like either of his Queens had done. He could still ride and fight and rally armies behind him as he could when he fought the fiercest battles of his life. He could still pass a sentence; still swing a sword. He’d come to trust that Irri had no secret desire to turn him into a eunuch. All he knew now was that the sight drove her wild with lust, and that when she fucked him, the pleasure she gave was like nothing he’d ever felt.

For Irri, it shattered the invisible prison she’d lived in from the day she lost her maidenhead. It gave her all the power and rights and entitlement she’d been denied because of the body she’d been born with. All men, even Jon, thought their cocks were the center of the world. _They’re not,_ she knew, _but if every man in the world could lie to me for so many years, why can’t my love and I pretend it’s true this time?_

Jon looked up at her with those wanton eyes that craved her approval. _Gods, you have no idea what that does to me._ She ran her fingers through his hair and arched her back, nearly as enraptured as when his tongue had been on her clit.

 _I’m the man. He’s the broodmare._ When she wore the cock, and he wore the cage, she commanded his attention. _It’s good for him_ , she thought, to feel like Jhiqui and Missandei described, but also to feel like a broodmare. _It’s scary being the broodmare, and a good boy should know that fear._

She pulled him up by his hair and stood, guiding him up to his feet, and took his hand. “Come, sweetling.”

Jon blushed and nodded, knowing what was coming. He followed, until they reached the bed, then took a pillow and assumed his position, resting his stomach on it.

As she rubbed her cock with oil, Irri no longer bothered hiding the predatory glee that overcame her. _Good boy, present yourself._ Jon wiggled his ass, his body clamoring and tempting and begging for her. She smirked to herself. _Greedy slut._

She leaned down toward his ear as she pulled one cheek to the side. “You’re in heat, aren’t you?” She whispered, playfully biting his earlobe, tugging it with her teeth.

“Mhm…” Jon nodded, moaned softly, and blushed. This was one of the few times Irri allowed him to dispense with protocol. He was too eager to remember details, too sweet to punish, and too vulnerable for needless cruelty. There was no shame in being hurt by a lash to the back. But to lay helpless and be held down and fucked would crush him far beyond the wounds to his body. Irri knew that all too well, and vowed long ago to protect her boy from such horror.

But she could tell from the way his caged cock ground against the pillow that tonight, at least, this boy needed a good pounding. “I can see that, sweetling,” she chuckled. “You’re so bad at hiding it.”

Jon grinned for a heartbeat, until Irri pulled her head away and pushed her cock inside him. The grin turned to a gasp, then a grunt, then a moan, as he grit his teeth until the pain passed and the ecstasy flooded his senses. “ _Fuck._ Gimme.”

 _‘Gimme,’ he says. Such a slut, yet so precious._ She held his waist with one hand and slapped his ass with the other, digging her nails in and guiding him as he backed himself up against her. He groaned and clutched the sheets, inviting her-- _begging_ her--to give him the merciless fucking he craved. _Good. I’m in no mood to tease._ “You want your _Khaleesi_ to _breed_ you.” She slapped him again, harder, as she began to pump. “Don’t you…”

Jon winced at the sting of her hand, but grew even hungrier for her cock. “Yes. Please. Like a bitch. Breed me, _Khaleesi…_ ”

 _Mmmmm_. Without meaning to, Irri growled softly. She lamented that there was no seed to spill inside him; no fertile womb to fill, no way to feel him wrapped around her shaft. _I’m still inside him, though,_ and in truth, that was what she needed. She needed to see herself mounting and taking a man; to push herself inside of him and watch him writhe and squirm. To know that he used to fight it, but that after years of breaking and molding him, he’d come to love being fucked as much as she did. To know that there was at least one man in the world that would lie there and take it, like she had, far too many times.

 _This is my right._ She’d earned it, after Daenerys, and those men in Illyrio’s manse, and that conquering _Khal_ ’s bloodriders whose names she never knew. After all the knights and courtiers in King’s Landing who would shout vile things at her, or grope her, or try to bed her long after she refused them. _I’ve earned myself a cheap little whore._

The thought made her cunt throb, but she knew it was false. She’d earned it, for certain, but not from enduring the cruelty of others by chance. This man was hers because she refused to inflict that cruelty on him, and because he knew that, and trusted her. _You earned it because you’re better than them. He’s better than them. He’s better than anything you could do to them as vengeance._

That was why she loved him so deeply. It was why she watched him so closely when they made love. She never wanted to see the look in his eyes that she’d given Daenerys the night the Queen nearly murdered her. Rage and betrayal and a refusal to take it anymore. _So don’t enrage him, don’t betray him, and don’t give him more than he can take._ Jon’s moaning went from blissful to plaintive. _He wants release._ But he would have no such thing.

Irri leaned down to Jon’s ear, speaking louder than before. “Should I let you out?” She reached around his waist and playfully tugged his caged cock.

He winced. “Please, _Khaleesi,_ I need it.”

Irri laughed. “Oh, you need it?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

She grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanked it back, and turned his head straight in front of him. _This is a lesson, not a negotiation._ “No, you _want_ it. Because it makes your blood run hot when I fuck you like a whore.”

Jon grunted involuntarily, admitting she was right.

“But you don’t need it. You never need it.” _If you knew how many times men have rolled over and gone to sleep without finishing me, you’d know not to call it a ‘need.’_ “You only need it when I command it, and you haven’t earned it yet. Shall I teach you how to earn it?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi_ , please teach me. Anything for you.”

 _That’s right. Anything for me._ “You earn it by demanding these lords treat me with the respect I'm due. You know they mislike me. You’re a brave man. You can do this for me, I know it.”

“I will, _Khaleesi,_ I promise.”

“Good. And good boys keep their promises, yes?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

She gave him a firm, deep thrust to emphasize the point. “Good.”

Jon grunted a depraved grunt. _Fuck him harder. Faster. Plant your seed in this slut._ That was impossible, of course, but she’d already sated her cunt, and wanted the same for her mind. _Only total conquest will serve._ She grabbed his hair tighter and pulled him back, his body every bit the toy as the one strapped between her legs. The deeper he fell into her thrall, the more brutal her thrusts became.

Her soft grunts grew louder, and turned to screams. “Mine! _Mine! MINE!_ ”

“Yours!” Jon agreed, breathless but emphatic, melting beneath her.

 _Never stop telling me that._ “ _MINE!!_ ” She spanked him. “Do you hear me?!” _You're the only thing I've ever owned that made me want to fuck it so hard it can't escape._

“Yours! All of me! Yours, _Khaleesi!_ ” _Yes. I’m your_ Khaleesi.

He called her that every day, but the way he said it that time sent a chill through her entire body. Her cunt throbbing, she dug her nails into his tight little ass, and her last thrusts felt like she were truly filling him. Once she’d had her fill, she stared down silently. _More._

“Roll over.” The _Khaleesi_ grabbed his waist and flipped him onto his back. _Like you truly had a choice..._ She tore her cock off as fast as she could, tossed it aside, mounted his leg, and growled. “This is mine.” She gave his cock a cursory backhanded slap. “ _This_ is mine.” _That most of all._

Jon growled back and met her eyes as she ran her hands up his chest. “Choke me.”

 _Mmm, the slut makes demands, now. Very well…_ She indulged him, watching his eyes go from lust, to fear, to something else. _‘Make me feel this safe forever,’_ he seemed to beg. It took less than a minute for the pleasure to consume her, and she leaned down, kissing him deeply, keeping her hand on his throat as her cunt poured onto his thigh.

Irri slowed down, felt herself relax, then rolled off of him and pointed to her cock on the floor. “Clean that, and put it away,” she commanded as she caught her breath. Irri would not subject a sweet girl like Qezza to tasks fit only for sluts.

When he was done, Irri patted the mattress beside her and smiled. “Come here, sweetling.” She studied his face as he lay next to her. _He doesn’t look hurt._ Still, she had a duty to ask. “Are you hurt?”

Jon smiled. “No, I’m alright. I’ll be fidgeting all day tomorrow, but I’m alright.”

Irri stroked his hair softly and kissed him on the cheek, then searched his eyes. “You’re certain.”

“I’m certain.” Jon nuzzled her neck and lay his head on her chest, toying with her nipple, less innocently than he’d have her believe.

 _No, I won’t let you out, silly boy._ She took his hand away and laced his fingers with hers. “If you can’t rule, I will need these lords to respect me. I know I made it part of our game, but this is important.”

Jon seemed mildly irritated that she had brought up matters of state, but she wanted to make certain he understood. “I know, my love. I can manage them, I promise. I’m still their King in the North.”

Irri smiled and kissed him softly on the lips. “Sleep, then, King in the North. I love you dearly.”

He gave her that maddeningly sweet grin of his. “I love you too, _Khaleesi._ ”

Morning brought an invitation to breakfast in Sansa’s solar. Edd and Missandei had accompanied them to Winterfell, but Sansa insisted that only Jon and Irri join her. Something about that made Irri uneasy, and she wondered what Sansa meant to say that she couldn’t say in front of others. _She’s going to fuck us somehow. A lady fucks her guests in private._

They entered the solar to find Sansa at her table with Lady Fucking Mormont. _It’s too early in the morning for this._ The She-Bear was ten years older and looked ten years meaner than she’d been when Irri had last seen her. She had grown into a well-built woman, and could have been comely if she wanted to, but seemed no more interested in looking comely than Ser Jorah had been. They both rose until Jon bid them sit, but not before Mormont shot her a disdainful sideways look.

“Curious time to make a progress to the North, Jon Snow,” Mormont started, after Sansa dragged everyone through the pleasantries. “Autumn snows could have held you up for weeks.”

“I don’t think it’s curious at all, my lady,” Jon replied, girding himself. “We want the North to know we’re thinking of them as winter grows closer.” Irri appreciated that he used the word ‘we.’

To her credit, Sansa would not allow Lady Mormont to turn this into a trial. “Jon, please don’t take this the wrong way, but we know why you’re here. We have little birds of our own.”

Irri did her best to keep a straight face. No other Lord Paramount would confess to having spies in the capital lest he lose his head, but Sansa was not concerned in the least. _Because she’s Sansa._

“I understand why you must purge the city of those men,” Sansa continued. “And nothing would grieve me more deeply than to hear that you or your children were in danger.” _Me, on the other hand…_ “You’re always welcome at Winterfell, of course.” _‘But…’_ “But I invited you to speak in private so we may speak frankly, without arguing in front of all my bannermen at once.” _What else do you do up here, but sit in the great hall and argue with each other at once?_

Jon looked at Irri, then at a plate of bacon, then back at Irri, with the saddest, most irrefusable eyes he could summon. That gave her some comfort. _At least I still have him._ She could not begrudge him under the circumstances, so she nodded and took a strip for herself.

Sansa exhaled deeply. “I’ll always love you, Jon, but--”

Lyanna was not so hesitant. “But if you think we’re sending men to the Riverlands to die putting down _your_ rebellion, you’ve lost your damn wits.”

“You must realize that this could plunge the Realm right back into chaos,” Jon replied, doing his best to mask his pain and anger.

“ _Your_ Realm,” Lady Mormont corrected him, incorrectly. “There are no mad septons up here, and we've given them no cause to trouble us.”

“This is the same Realm, my lady,” Jon reminded her. “You signed that pact yourself.”

“He’s right, my lady,” Sansa concurred. “We swore an oath.” _Choose a side, Lady Stark._

“Winterfell will always be my home,” Jon went on.

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “Will it.”

“Aye, it will! I want your people to make it through winter. They're my people, too. And not because of some bloody piece of paper. Ned Stark--”

“Ned Stark raised a dutiful bastard, so now it’s my duty to send men to war when that winter you're so concerned about is nearly upon us? To leave Bear Island with children and greybeards? That would stop _my_ land from plunging into chaos?”

Irri noticed that Lady Mormont refused to even look in her direction. _I’ll always be the serving girl to her._

“Would you rather have greybeards to feed, and ships from the Reach to feed them?” Jon shot back. “Or all the mouths on Bear Island, and nothing?”

Mormont scoffed. “So you'd let ‘your’ people starve if I refuse to help you tear out the weeds that cropped up after your beloved auntie sowed her madness all through the South?” _She wasn't his only beloved, you know._ “How am I to explain that to my people? ‘He loves you, but he refuses to send ships to feed you.’”

Jon kept his voice down, as if to scold a child without shouting. “If it comes to war, and I don't have men to fight it, they'll burn the ships.”

Sansa spoke up again. “As I said, Jon, I love you dearly. But Lady Mormont speaks for half my bannermen. If I ordered them to fight, they will keep their oaths, until one of them doesn't. Then _I'll_ be facing rebellion.”

“The common people wouldn't abide that,” Jon insisted. “They'd stay loyal to me. They--”

“No! They won't!” That was as close to raising her voice as Sansa got. “This is all a game to us. If it comes to battle, we will all sit on our horses, watching from some hilltop while the common people you’re so confident about get slaughtered.” _And I’ll watch my children be slaughtered. This is no game._

“I’d fight with them!” Jon was indignant.

Sansa sighed. “No, Jon. You'll want to, I have no doubt. But Lord Tyrion will warn you that you can’t risk leaving the Iron Throne to a handmaiden. And he'll be right.”

Irri was fuming. _Look in my eyes when you say that._ She kicked Jon under the table. He ignored it.

“She may be a better Queen than we all thought,” Sansa continued, twisting the knife, “but she _cannot_ hold Westeros through open rebellion without you. It would be the Dothraki against everyone else. Daenerys had the same problem from the moment she got off the boat. _She_ would have failed, and she was a dragon rider who saved the world with you. You're not some bastard boy who happens to be good with a sword, Jon. Not anymore. You have other considerations, as do I.”

Irri could no longer contain herself. “I--”

Jon put a hand up to silence her. “My love. Please. Not now.” _Excuse me?!_

Livid, the Queen rose and turned to Sansa, who looked surprised to see her there. “I imagine that from the day you left this castle to the day you took it back, a thousand men claimed to be your friend.” She refused to look at Lady Mormont, because fuck Lady Mormont. “And I’m certain you remember who played you false, and that you paid them back in kind.” Sansa eyed her with a hint of fear. “I may not look like you, but we have far more in common than you think, my lady.” She turned to Jon, pulling her necklace from her tunic and let the key rest in plain sight on her chest, gladly inviting his cousin and the Bear-Cunt to wonder what locks it opened. “We will speak later.” With that, she turned and left.

It was all Irri could do not to cry before she reached her bedchamber. She summoned Missandei, who found her slumped forward in a chair with her head on the table.

“What's wrong,Your Grace?” Her Hand sat next to her and put a hand on her back. “They're not sending men, are they?”

Irri sat up and composed herself. “No.”

“You know how they are, Your Grace. We can win this without them.”

 _Can we?_ “They don't respect me. They don't even _pretend_ to respect me. They spoke ill of me without even looking at me. And when I tried to defend myself, Jon _silenced_ me! Like some unruly child, speaking out of turn.”

Missandei shook her head. “He was wrong to do that. And I’m sure Your Grace will make that known to him.” There was a faint hint of humor in her voice; an attempt to raise her spirits. Missandei knew what she and Jon did, but Irri was in no mood for japes about beatings. _I should not have let her grow so familiar._ But Missandei was brilliant and unshakably loyal, and understood her better than anyone alive. _Can't I let anyone grow familiar?_

She sighed. “This is different. How long must I be a Queen before they treat me like a person?”

Jon entered, knowing he was stepping into a nest of vipers.

“Well?!” Irri folded her arms. “Did you change their minds, _King in the North?_ ” She did her best to mock a Northern accent. Every word was thicker with contempt than the last.

“No,” he replied sheepishly as he sat.

“No, of course not. Maybe you should have hidden me among the serving girls, like Daenerys did.” 

Jon sighed, knowing he had that coming. _You have much more coming._ “Please, my love. I did not mean--”

“I know precisely what you meant. You meant to show them that my crown means nothing beyond Moat Cailin. That I’m some curiosity. Daenerys’s wedding gift to you, with some ornament on my head, but no true power. Like a _craven._ ” It was near blasphemy in the Seven Kingdoms to accuse Jon of being a craven, but she shoved the word right in his face.

“Irri--”

She put a hand up to silence him, just as he had, and looked him dead in the eyes. _That doesn’t feel good, does it?_ “You could have let me speak. But you chose their backward insolence over my dignity. Though maybe that’s for the best. Maybe I should be the kind of Queen who stands silently behind her husband, smiling like a fool and saying nothing. You’re a _fine_ talker, after all. You can explain to the countless men who have grown rich from the laws _I_ made, why they no longer see me on the Iron Throne. _You_ can explain why it’s fair that they should pay more taxes and send their sons to war while the Northern lords sit up here and diddle each other, boasting of how their land is big and cold and full of stubborn little cunts!”

“Your Grace…” Missandei interrupted cautiously.

“ _What,_ ” Irri snarled.

“If we can’t rely on the North, we should discuss our other options.” _‘We should discuss anything but this, lest my marriage break apart, and the continent with it,’ you mean._ She was right, though.

Irri turned back to Jon and pointed in his face. “I’m not done with you.” She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, before turning to Qezza. “Sweetling, some wine, please.” No matter how furious she got, Irri would never speak the girl harshly.

“And summon Edd,” Jon added.

Irri scoffed before she could stop herself. _Edd will solve everything!_ Jon looked at her, begging for a hint at how to stop digging himself deeper into the truly impressive hole he’d made. _Work it out yourself._

Missandei began, whether anyone else was ready or not. “We’ll have the Dornish. They follow the Seven, but not like the others.”

“Rhaegar had the Dornish. What of it?” Irri knew the Dornish would fare better against poorly armed rebels than they did against Robert Baratheon, but she had decided to exercise her royal prerogative to be an insufferable cunt for the rest of the day.

“Twenty thousand spears are better than none, Your Grace.”

Irri respected Missandei’s resolve to press on through the cuntiness. “Fine. Go on.”

“The Lannisters--”

“Haven’t mattered since they ran out of gold and Daenerys crushed them. These men are after my children. I will not defend them with the shell of an army.”

Edd entered before Missandei could form a response. “What’s wrong now?”

“Sansa won’t help us,” Jon explained.

Edd sighed, still standing. “I knew they wouldn’t.”

“Then what do _you_ propose?” Irri asked.

“Just kill the rebels without an army. I was Lord Commander of the most shit army in history. You don’t need 'em.”

 _Easy to say, hard to do._ “How, then?”

“Small bands of men. Brigands. No banners. They roam from town to town, kill who they need to kill, then move on to the next town before anyone gets a good look. I’m told most men wouldn’t like being murdered. It’ll make them much less popular.” He looked around, sensing the tension and wanting no part of it. “Can I go, now?”

 _Good ideas come from the strangest places._ “No. Sit,” Irri commanded.

Edd obeyed, wishing he hadn’t made himself useful.

Irri kept her eyes on his. “Where are we to get these men?”

“Not ‘round here.”

“Ironborn, then? Wildlings?”

“Find some spice merchant from the Free Cities. Get him to hire sellswords, but not tell them who’s really paying. If they get captured, they won’t expose you that way. The rebels can bleat about foreigners all they want, but they know they can’t send men across the Narrow Sea.”

Suddenly the idea seemed not so good. “I will _not_ treat with anyone who takes part in the slave trade.”

“Well, then, that rules out...all of them, I suppose.” Edd looked for someone who would give him leave to go, but to no avail.

Jon got a burst of courage. “I think this is worth considering.”

 _Of course you do._ “No. We still have a war with them to finish.”

Jon tried to avoid scoffing, but did a poor job of it. “My love, please, that war was folly when Dany dreamt it up, and it’s even more folly now.”

 _Scoff at that again, and I’ll melt this fucking key in the brazier._ If she closed her eyes, Irri could have sworn her skin had turned pale and her hair silver. “Then we wait, and build an army, until we are ready. That may take years, but it will be much longer before I beg for help from men who once treated me, _and_ Missandei, _and_ Daenerys like _chattel!_ ” She slapped the table. _You simply don’t know what that’s like. So shut your slut mouth when I speak of it._

“What do you think they’d do, my love?!” Jon persisted. “Scoop you off the Iron Throne in a net?” _Who says they wouldn’t?_

“That’s not the point! Would you beg for help from the men who murdered you?”

“If they could help, and I trusted them not to do it again, then aye, I might!”

Irri looked at her husband like he had two heads. Then it hit her. _His brothers thought that was their duty,_ she realized, _but they still respected him as a man._ Slavers begrudged her even that. _There is truly nothing I can say to explain this to him._ So she decided not to bother. “Makes no matter. I won’t do it.”

Missandei looked around the table, uneasy. “May I have a moment alone with Her Grace?”

Edd needed no further persuasion. Jon shot Irri a perturbed look, but knew he was in no position to argue. He took his leave as well.

Missandei waited a moment after the door had closed. “I haven't mentioned this before, because you commanded me never to speak of it.”

Irri had only given that command once. “What did you do…”

Missandei took a deep breath. “The _Prince Rhaegar_...that was the work of a pirate from Lys.”

 _A slaver, for certain._ Irri wanted to be furious, but couldn’t. _This was my fault._ “There was no other choice?”

“No, Your Grace. If we had used Ironborn, the Crown would have come under suspicion.” _It came under suspicion anyway._

Irri sighed deeply. “What’s done is done.”

Missandei hesitated. _Go on, ask._ “I...I didn’t truly know why you commanded me to do that.” Irri let the silence linger, hoping that would serve as a confession, but it was lost on the Hand. “There are rumors, Your Grace. About Daenerys, and the oarsman.”

 _Please don’t make me say it._ She nodded.

“They say--”

“I know.” She kept nodding, silently. _Take the hint! I beg you!_

Confusion and pain washed over Missandei’s face. “So, you--”

“It was the day she first saw a dragon drop wildfire. You were with us. Surely you can imagine what that did to her. She was mad that night. And she took the man’s tongue to keep him silent.”

Missandei looked away, and took it all in. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 _You’re Hand of the Queen, you’re not that thick._ “Because it would have been my head! And yours! I’d been Queen in my own right for three days when that man was called to testify. And do you think Lady Mormont’s lot would think you didn’t take part as well, you brown-skinned savage whore?!”

Missandei knew she only said that to make a point. “Why didn’t you at least tell me? Did you not trust me?”

“I trusted no one. I wanted to forget it. I wanted it to die with Daenerys.”

The Hand paused. “Did she--was this not the first time?”

“It was the most grievous.” _That wasn’t what she asked._

“But not the first.”

“The first with a stranger.”

Missandei took Irri’s hands and caught her eyes before she could hide them. “But not the first.”

The dam burst, and it all came pouring out. How it started innocently, on the ship from Qarth to Astapor. How duty turned to lust, lust to love, and love to fear, then back to love, then back to fear, over and over, day to day, moment to moment. How she couldn't refuse, and how she had forgotten how to tell when she wanted to. How she craved the pain, and how sometimes, it was the only way she knew Dany loved her. How she only fought back when she could feel her life slipping away. How Jon changed so much, but couldn't change everything. She may have said it in the Common Tongue, or in Dothraki, or both. Or she may have just shaken and blubbered like a child stung by a bee.

Whatever she did, she could tell by Missandei’s face that she understood. Her Hand took a deep breath and passed her a handkerchief. “Does His Grace know this?”

That question hurt nearly as much as the memories, but she composed herself nonetheless. “Not everything.” _I should have told him._ But Jon was too fine a man to know such things about his wife. It would have torn him up inside. _And I may have lost him._

“I see.” She paused again. “You must know that none of it was your fault.” _That's what Daenerys would say, until her blood grew hot again._ “It was--”

“Her. And her madness. I know.” _Change the subject. Now._ “Why do you speak of the _Prince Rhaegar_?Are you saying we should conspire with slavers to murder my subjects?” _That sounded queenly enough,_ she supposed.

Missandei plainly knew there was more to be said, but let it go. “I’m saying we should do what’s necessary to protect your children. Terrible as the man was, he did what we needed, with no proof that you were involved. Edd is right. If we start demanding lords take sides, some of them will oppose us, then we risk open revolt. I’m as disgusted as you are, but it may be our only choice.”

 _‘Do what’s necessary to protect my children.’_ If Irri knew only two things about this world, it was that slavery and all its vestiges should be wiped out, and her children protected at all costs. _Now I must choose between the two?_

“I'll think on it. Leave me.”

Missandei hesitated, but did as she was bid.

The children were Irri’s only joy that day. She put on her best face as she watched Aemon play in the yard with the stable boys. He had Jon’s sincere affection for the common people, and his tendency to forget that he would never be one of them. _Even without the titles, he rides too well. It’s in his blood._ Dothraki in the North were scarce, and the stable boys had never seen someone loose an arrow from horseback. They thought him some sort of god. That made her smile for the first time since she got out of bed.

If Aemon was a god, Vazzi was a demon. Irri returned from the yard to find her pestering Maester Wolkan as he combed through Lady Sansa’s messages. She sat and watched the Princess rule the North from the maester’s knee, declaring which bannermen should get how many bushels of wheat, and which should first have to prove their loyalty to her. _Her. Not Sansa, not the Crown. Her._ Irri debated whether that should disturb her. _No._ _Good girl._ Half of Vazzi’s replies would have started wars, but Irri suspected she knew that. And given how the morning had gone, she had half a mind to command the maester to heed her daughter’s every word.

Wolkan was a kindly man, and deserved a knighthood for his patience, but after an hour or so, he finally lost it. “Perhaps the Princess would enjoy some needlework, Your Grace,” he blurted out, after Vazzi asked him which Umber was the drunkard and which one kissed boys. “It's a traditional pastime for noble girls.”

“Not where I'm from,” Vazzi replied, before Irri had the chance. It was refreshing to see a little brown-skinned girl tell a Northerner to shove his traditions up his ass. _I’d crown you now, but you still wet the bed sometimes._

Irri laughed rudely, but stopped herself. _She's tortured the poor man enough._ “Nor where I'm from.” She stood and beckoned her daughter. “But you have a feast to prepare for. Come, sweetling.”

The feast was worse than breakfast, as she no longer had the option of storming out. But she got through it, pretending to taste things when she put her fork in her mouth, and matching Sansa, smile for disingenuous smile.

Jon seemed to sense that he was still not back in her good graces by the time they returned to their bedchamber. He was right.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Irri stripped and got under the covers. “No, you shouldn’t have, and you'll stay caged for it.”

Jon joined her in bed, knowing better than to protest. “People like Lady Mormont live in the past. You’re right. But if I try to force them out of it, they grow even more stubborn. I was only trying to--”

“You were trying to make them forget I was in the room. Why?! You’ve convinced men to put aside much older grudges before. You _died_ for that, and pushed even harder from the moment you woke up. Where was that man today? What is so terrifying about Lyanna Mormont that you’d rather slight me than her?”

“She doesn’t terrify me,” Jon bristled. “She backed me against Ramsay when no one else would, and she was the first to name me King in the North. I owe her.”

“Have I ever demanded anything of you that you could not do?”

“No.” Irri raised an eyebrow. “No, _Khaleesi._ ” _Better._

“And everything I've demanded of you has made you a better man, has it not?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Then you owe it to _me_ , as my husband, and servant, and _King_ , to refuse to allow anyone to treat me like that, no matter what they mutter behind your back. It _hurts_ that your own cousin kneels when I ride through their gates and stands when I enter a room, but still treats me like a handmaiden when it comes to matters of state.”

“I understand.”

“No, my love, you don't. Men may have called you a bastard, but you still grew up in this castle, and you were still a powerful man's son, and everyone knew it. They crowned you when you took this castle back, even when your cousin had the stronger claim and sat right next to you. And when the truth came out, the whole continent fawned all over you.”

“But that--”

Irri was having none of it. “And while you and your highborn kin were pouting at each other, I was serving my sentence for the crime of being a little girl on the wrong side of a battlefield. I was _raped_ , day after day, by a host of men I never saw before or since. Then I was sold to Daenerys, and raped by a woman I shared a bed with.”

Jon bit his lip. _Bite harder._

“No one knows who my parents were. No one wrote it down, because no one would have cared. I was nothing. I married into the most powerful House the world has ever known, and to some, I'm still nothing.”

Jon said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“I love you dearly, and you’ve done so much for me. But do _not_ presume to know what it’s like to have lived my life, or to have some woman judge me because my skin and accent don’t suit her tastes. You’ve had more than your share of hardship in your life, and that’s one of the many reasons I love you. But sometimes you forget about mine. I need you to be the one person who can make _me_ forget.”

“I’m sorry, _Khaleesi._ ”

“I forgive you, my love. Truly.” She locked eyes with him. “But don’t ever humiliate me like that again.” Jon nodded, and she kissed him on the forehead. “Go to bed, sweetling.”

Jon rolled onto his side and was snoring softly after a few moments, but Irri stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, for what seemed like hours. _I need him inside me._ But she couldn’t. He was asleep. She slid a hand between her legs, because it was her only other choice. That brought her release, but the release only made her want him more.

She tapped his shoulder and kissed his cheek. He rolled onto his back, and she kissed him again on the lips. _Wake up, boy. Service me._ She took the key from around her neck, uncaged him, and began to stroke his cock. She felt it pulse and grow hard, but Jon was still dead to the world. _I know you want me. You pledged yourself to me. Wake up!_ She kissed him again, hoping he’d open his mouth and let her tongue dance with his. But his lips stayed still, lifeless as the rest of him.

But his cock was fully erect, and Irri could no longer help herself. She slid down and took him into her mouth, looking up for any signs of stirring. _This feels wrong,_ she thought. _Calm yourself,_ something else told her. _You could do much worse._

Jon let out a soft, groggy moan, but kept his hips still and made no move to touch her. _I said wake up, slut!_ Irri could feel her cunt stirring as she sucked. For a moment, it disturbed her. _He doesn’t know what you’re doing._ That made her stir even more. _No. Don’t do that._ But the urge was too powerful, and she found herself climbing on top of him.

She gasped softly as she mounted him, as if not to rouse him. _Do you want him to wake up or not?_ Her hips started to move, and she looked down and watched his head turn to one side. _Please wake up._ If he woke up, she wouldn’t have to answer her own question. But with each thrust of her hips, her body cared less and less. _I need it. He brought me here. He made me suffer these fools. He owes me this._

Irri remembered the first time she was told that she owed her body to someone. _This is different. I’m a woman. He’s a man._ But she knew that was no excuse. _It feels too good,_ another part of her mind said. _Too good to stop. Look at this boy beneath you. Look at how far you’ve come. Feel the power you have. Use it. Use him. He can do nothing to stop you. All that strength, and he’s helpless._

Jon finally grunted, shook his head, and opened his eyes. They widened as he realized what was happening. _Oh, stop complaining._

“What...what are you--” _I’m taking what’s mine._

Irri put one hand on his throat, and the other over his nose and mouth. “Shut up,” she hissed. Her almond eyes narrowed and dared him to challenge her.

He grunted again in protestation, and moved a hand toward his face, but Irri swung an elbow out and knocked him away. “Do _not_ touch me until I’m done with you.”

A sudden wave of guilt came over her. _This is what Daenerys would do._ Not the Daenerys she’d loved, but the one who made her question whether she was worthy of love at all. _You know you shouldn't do this._ But her hips were moving on their own. _Stop hesitating,_ the beast inside told her. _Use his cock. Finish. Fuck your whore._

Jon winced, his eyes pleading with her to stop. Irri had seen that look before, but this was different. There was no lust. No greedy little slut below the surface, begging her to keep going. _Stop, or this will only get worse. You’ll become like her. She died because she took this too far._ But Jon was not some oarsman. He would never do that. He would forgive her. _Why do you care if he forgives you? He’ll lay there and take it, like the slut he is, or face the consequences._ Jon tried to squirm away. Something about that drove her mad with lust.

“How dare you refuse me,” she growled into his ear. _Where is this coming from?_ “Try to escape, and you’ll regret it.” That was enough to pin him where he was, but his hips were still moving. _His cock is hard and his hips are moving. What more do you want? He likes this._ “Finish me.” Her moans grew louder, as she no longer felt the need to hide them. “Finish me!”

But the harder she rode him, the more it grew plain that he would finish first. _No._ His cock started to pulse, and she slammed her weight down, taking him into her as deeply as she could. Hungry. Greedy. Reckless. _No!_ She felt his seed pouring into her; flooding her, thick and heavy from the morning’s denial, as his face twisted into a mix of pain and shame; fear and disgust. _Why does this disgust him?!_ She knew precisely why.

She lifted her hands from his body and dismounted as he began to grow soft. A moment ago, she would have finished with his mouth, but she could no longer bring herself to try.

Out of shame, more than the need to make water, Irri staggered toward the privy. She tried not to look back. _Are you proud of yourself?_ She thought, as she sat. _He’s your husband, and the finest anyone could ask for. He’s the father of your children. This is how you honor him? He should take your fucking crown and make you a serving girl again. You don’t deserve him._

Jon’s eyes ambushed her as she came out. She hesitated. _What am I to say?_ He seemed to be wondering the same thing. Irri could tell he was clinging to some sense of pride, or bravery, or telling himself that this was his duty. _It’s not. Please don’t think that._

She got back into bed and reached out to touch his arm. “I’m truly sorry, my love. Please forgive me. I--” But Jon simply inched away.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He rolled over and covered his head with his arm.

She wanted to hold him, and kiss him, and make it better. _That would only make it worse._ She knew what she’d done, but he would never say the word. _He’s too proud. He’ll say it was my right._ But that was a lie. As far as Irri could tell, Jon was sleeping, but she could not hear him snoring. She thought it best to simply leave him be, so she lay on her back, folded her hands over her stomach, and stared at the ceiling, no less restless.

Sleep finally found her, but she woke with a pit in her stomach. Qezza dressed her in her armor by the window, as the Queen stared out, watching the sunrise over Winterfell, silent and distant. To save her children and keep her crown, she needed an army, and Jon's faith in her. Mormont had fucked her out of one, and she feared she'd fucked herself out of the other.  _Fix it, then. Queens don't pity themselves._  But that rang hollow.  _Queens might, but a_ Khaleesi _cannot afford to._ Of that, she was far more certain.

“I’m sorry,” Irri repeated as she spotted Jon's eyes open from across the room.

He scratched his head, too disoriented to take her meaning. Then it hit him. “I told you,” he answered, half-awake and grumpy, “there's nothing--”

 _Please, just let me be sorry._ “Yes, there is. I should not have done that.”

Jon sat up in bed, resigned himself to consciousness, and feigned a smile. “It got me out of the cage.”

“Stop it. I fucked you when you didn’t want to be fucked.” Irri caught the deeply uncomfortable look on Qezza’s face. _I’m sorry, sweetling._ She tried to shield the girl from such things, but this was important.

“Shall I send you to the Wall?” Jon asked, still not entirely serious.

“ _Stop!_ I mean it. I became Daenerys last night, and it shames me.”

Jon looked genuinely confused. “What would you have of me, then?”

“I’d have you admit that I hurt you. Your body may be unharmed, but do not lie and say you aren't troubled inside. I know better. You can admit it. It makes you no less a man.”

Jon sighed. “It was a bit strange.”

 _It was more than that,_ she knew, but from a man like Jon, it was the best she’d get for now. “Please, for _both_ of us, don’t ever let me do that again. Push me off. Fight me if you must.”

“I’ll stop you. I promise.”

“And I promise to stop myself.” She paused. “Do you still love me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good.” She dipped her head so Qezza could don her crown, then pointed at Jon’s cage on her bedside table. “Put that away. I should not have locked you up and demanded you raise me an army.” She started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Jon shouted after her.

Irri shouted back without looking. “To raise one myself.”


	3. Missandei I

“What’s Mother doing?” Vazzi asked, as Missandei led her by the hand through Winterfell’s yard. It was more dragging than leading, as the Queen was a few paces ahead of them, walking too fast for a child to keep up.

“I don’t know, Princess. But she wants you see it.” Missandei bit the inside of her cheek to purge any hint of weakness from her face.

Irri flung open the door to the Great Hall before the guard had a chance to touch it, and marched past lords, knights, and servants alike, straight toward Lady Mormont, breaking her fast on the dais next to Sansa. Missandei squeezed the girl’s hand as they followed. “Watch this closely.”

 _People reveal their true selves when they’re angry,_ Missandei thought, as she stood and watched. Kraznys became a sniveling little shit who took out his fury on the weak. Dany became a force of nature who would not rest until everyone around her was awed, shamed, and terrified to her satisfaction.

And Irri became a girl from a people with no true cities and no written language; who found armor in battle cowardly, and rode from town to town, taking what they wanted, and moving on. Whose leaders ruled for as long as they were the fiercest in the horde, and not a minute longer. Whose slaves survived only by forcing themselves to grow impervious to pain and fear.

“Had Ser Jorah not done so much for my wife,” Irri leaned over the She-Bear and put a finger right in her face. “And his father for my husband, I'd have you dragged into the yard this instant, and take your head off myself.” Her words lost the smooth flow that marked them for the Common Tongue, and she spat out each one in the harsh Dothraki cadance she’d grown up with. They came not from her lips and tongue, but from the back of her throat, bursting through tightly gritted teeth. The room went silent.

Mormont smirked, pushed her bowl of porridge aside, and stared Irri down. “You think you're that good with a sword?”

Irri smirked right back at the flippant cunt. “I'm terrible with a sword. But that will hurt you, not me.” Missandei heard hushed muttering, but neither Irri nor Lyanna seemed to notice.

Sansa put a hand between them. “I apologize, Your Grace. I think we ended breakfast on the wrong note yesterday.” Her voice was much softer, encouraging them both to follow her.

“You’re right.” Her Grace lowered her voice, grudgingly following Sansa’s lead. “We should have ended on the note where you call your banners, _as commanded_.” Vazzi snatched a slice of bread from the table and took a bite, holding it with two tiny hands, watching her mother like a maiden watching her favorite knight jousting.

“But we didn’t,” Mormont reminded her. “Your husband asked us, and we refused. We gave our reasons. He accepts them.”

“I’m not my husband.”

Lyanna leaned back. “Then what do you mean to do about it? Did Daenerys not tell you that no army can hold the North? Or were her legs around your ears too tight?” _I wager my lady would know what that’s like._

“No army can hold the _mainland_ ,” Irri corrected her. The thought finished itself. Missandei the Hand knew her Queen was treading a dangerous path, but Missandei the Naathi Freedwoman loved it. _Keep treading. I’m right behind you._

Mormont turned to Sansa. “This woman is threatening one of your bannermen.”

Irri turned as well. “This woman is threatening both of you.”

“I’d counsel against that,” Mormont warned.

Irri rolled her eyes. “If Lady Sansa won’t send men to fight _with_ her cousin, she won’t send men against him.”

Lyanna waited for a reply from her liege, but Sansa’s eyes warned that she would not like it. Irri grinned, smelling victory.

“Our pact grants me no right to stop the Crown from crushing an armed rebellion.” Sansa answered, as if she'd rehearsed it. _‘It’s not my fault, it’s the paper!’_ In truth, Missandei admired Sansa greatly. Her slippery manner of ruling a land that despised slippery rulers was a stroke of brilliance, and had done as much to keep the Realm together as anything Jon or Irri did. _Few other lords could help us so much by being such thorns in our side._

“Then we won’t take up arms against the Crown, but we will _certainly_ not fight for it. Not in this folly.” _We don’t need your men._ Bear Island had a few hundred, at most. _We need you to shut your mouth._ That was the most dangerous part of her.

Missandei leaned over and put her hand in front of Irri’s ear. “You’ll mislike what I’m about to say, but please trust me,” she whispered. Irri nodded, but Missandei knew the trust was fragile.

“Lady Mormont, the Queen would name you to her Small Council.” Irri arched her eyebrow so high, so quickly, that Missandei feared it would knock plaster from the ceiling. _Take two heartbeats and think about it._

Mormont laughed. “So you can hold me hostage?” _Yes. Thank you for the concise explanation._ Irri seemed much more comfortable.

“Daenerys’s pact promised the North its own seat on the Small Council. Edd Tollett is the King’s Hand, as was Davos before him, but they answered to Jon before the North, and neither were born here. You speak what much of the North thinks, and what we admit the Crown would sometimes rather not hear. Speak where we have no choice but to listen. We cannot afford to bicker from afar like this.”

The She-Bear searched Missandei’s eyes. “I want assurances that no harm will come to me. I want the Princess fostered with my sisters at Bear Island.” Irri looked like Mormont had just asked to foster her left tit.

A purple-eyed head popped barely above the table. “Look into my eyes, Lady Mormont,” said the sweet voice, standing on its toes. “I am the blood of the Dragon, and the Starks of Winterfell. _No one_ commands me to go anywhere _._ ” For a girl who still had trouble with hard-crusted bread, Vazzi could be utterly terrifying. _She’s not some willful child. She's her great aunt reborn._ But Missandei remembered what Irri had told her the day before. _Pray she doesn’t repeat her mistakes._ She was certain the world would be better off were Daenerys still alive. _But Irri is not the world._

Lady Mormont regarded the girl, trying to decide what to make of her. The Queen smiled. Whatever pissing contest there had been, her daughter ended it decisively. _She pisses like a stallion._

“She knows what you did for her father, and of your letter to Stannis Baratheon.” For the first time that morning, there was a hint of warmth in Irri’s voice. “It was among the first things she read, and her first lessons in statecraft. You’re a hero to her. Because of you, this is how she speaks, even to her heroes.”

Lyanna could not help but crack a smile of her own. “She’s a fierce one, isn’t she?”

Irri kissed the Princess on the top of her head. “She is.” _It’s like she’s talking to an old friend._ “Now imagine her on your tiny island, with forty thousand screamers at her back.” _Never mind._

Missandei played the conciliator again. “It would mean a great deal to us if you could accept the offer without the need for a hostage, my lady. Surely you trust that Jon would ensure your safety.”

“I want a trade pact.” _She haggles like a crone._ “A right of first offer for any furs the Crown purchases for its army.”

“ _If_ you send men to fight. And you have our word, we will always let you speak frankly on the Council, and we will not work to undermine you.” _Not too much, anyway._ “But we must know that when a matter is decided, you will play your part, even if you were against it.”

Lady Mormont turned to Vazzi again. _A good sign._ They stared at each other, like two sellswords about to fight over a tavern wench. _Even better._ Mormont smiled again. “Counsel me, Princess.” _We’ve won._

“Do as you’re told,” the Princess counseled, unimpressed with the attempt at flattery.

Mormont nodded, admiring the corner she found herself backed into. “Very well, then. I’ll serve.”

Irri beamed, a proud mother and nothing more. She turned to Sansa. “As I said yesterday, my lady, we have more in common than it seems. I look forward to getting to know you both on the ride south. _With_ our host. Call your banners. And tell your little birds to expect us.”

Lady Stark gave the Queen one of her courteous but unreadable smiles. “As Your Grace commands.”

After dropping Vazzi off with Maester Wolkan, they found Jon and Edd in the solar, standing over a map on the table. Lady Arya at the Twins was the only direwolf on the continent. The other Northern pieces rolled around aimlessly off the coast of the Fingers.

“Pardon me.” Irri squeezed around Edd, retrieved the stray pieces, and proudly set them down over Winterfell.

Jon gave Irri an impressed nod. “How did you get Mormont?”

“I was a cunt.” Irri smiled. “As I should have been years ago.” She gestured toward Missandei. “And my lady persuaded her to join the Small Council, where we can watch her.”

Jon turned to Missandei. “I don’t know if I should be more impressed at that, or that my wife didn't launch you back to King’s Landing in a trebuchet for it.” He smiled and tipped his head. She blushed.

 _That never gets old._ Missandei had never tried to be more to Jon than a loyal advisor to his wives, nor he any more than her good friend who happened to be her King. But his smile could melt a woman's soul right out between her thighs, and she had long ago shed her misgivings about enjoying it for what it was. _Don’t gawk at it, though. Say something._ “Your daughter was of indispensable help, Your Grace.”

Jon laughed, with a hint of tension. He seemed uncertain how proud he should be. “What did she do?”

Missandei hesitated, but Irri rescued her. “A she-bear of twenty years is old and tired. A dragon of six is a terror, and will be for years to come.”

Jon nodded, needing no further details. “That one will be the Black Dread at three-and-ten.” He smiled again. _Stop that._

“It’s early, but bugger it, I want to celebrate,” Irri announced. _And to calm her nerves._ Yesterday had been hard: her humiliation, her quarrel with Jon, and the confessions Missandei had inadvertently forced from her. _I’d drink to forget that, too._ “Qezza, sweetling, fetch us some wine.”

Edd groaned. “You don't want me here for this.”

Jon cocked his head. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you drunk.”

“There’s a reason.”

“Do you get angry?”

“Worse,” Edd explained. “I get happy. If you think I’m bad now, I’m insufferable when I’m happy.”

Jon grinned. _I said stop it!_ “Go, then. I prefer the sufferable.” He shot Irri an unmistakable look. _How long before I’m gone as well?_

Qezza returned with a flagon, and the celebration began. They spoke for an hour about everything and nothing at once. It started with the latest news of Lord Tyrion’s purge, which turned to the latest news of his growing gut, which turned to baseless speculation on what sort of whores he preferred and what he did with them. This was not their first conversation on the topic, and would not be their last, but the man was so drunk and silly and full of himself that it called for frequent reassessment.

They called for a proper breakfast, which sobered them up, then called for more wine to rectify that. Irri launched into a glowing toast to Qezza, and what a sweet girl and wonderful handmaiden she was. She blushed and joined them for a cup, before begging their leave, which Irri granted after having her fetch just one more flagon. _She knows when to make herself scarce,_ Missandei sensed. When she was gone, the talk of Qezza turned to stories of their time in Meereen, and giggling about how Jon would have hated it.

“His skin would turn bright red as soon as he got off the boat,” Irri declared, smirking at her husband.

Missandei laughed. “Like a lobster.” _He’s your King, you shouldn’t have said that._ But the wine said it before she could stop herself. Irri seemed not to mind; she spat her wine into her cup and doubled over. Missandei looked at Jon contritely, but found only a knowing smile.

“No sense denying it,” He blushed, and took another sip.

Irri cackled and pointed at him. “Bright red, just like that!” That made him turn even redder.

A thought came to Missandei’s mind. _We’re drunk, just say it._ “If they all looked like His Grace, I’d eat much more lobster.” That made Jon look even more like a lobster.

Irri grinned. “My lady has fine taste.” A knee touched Missandei’s knee. _Don’t move. See if it goes away._ Missandei suspected it would linger. She was correct. Now she was a member of House Lobster.

 _Should I do this? CAN I do this?_ She knew what they did together, at least the essence of it. They seemed happy, so she was happy for them, but had no desire to try it herself. _But do I have a choice?_ She wondered. _Irri would give me a choice. She must._ After what Missandei had learned the day before, she could not imagine the Queen would be that cruel. _Still, tread carefully._ “It’s good to see you in better spirits than yesterday.”

Jon looked uneasy, but Irri reassured him. “We have what we need. That’s what matters.” Her look was not a look one gave about politics.

 _Bugger it._ Missandei finished her cup in one gulp. “And what is that, Your Grace?”

Irri blushed, tongue-tied. _She’s too drunk for the Common Tongue._ Missandei made it easier.

“ _Lajasar, che senak voj hilelat?_ ” ‘An army, or a third person to fuck?’

“ _Ishish ei._ ” ‘Maybe both.’ Irri’s hand planted itself on Missandei’s inner thigh.

Jon raised an eyebrow slyly. “Nothing good happens when she speaks Dothraki.” Irri simply nodded, confirming Jon’s suspicion. He cleared his throat and looked toward Missandei. “Is this what you want, my lady? We’ll take no offense if it’s not, you have my word on it.”

 _You owe them an honest answer._ The last man Missandei had been with was Grey Worm, which meant she had not truly been with a man in some time. She loved Grey Worm, and he loved her, but they could not be with each other as man and wife. The slavers blunted his desire, and she needed to feel desired. When he used his mouth on her cunt, he did it the way the Unsullied do everything else: extraordinarily well, but with a mindlessness that made her question whether he did it because he wanted to, or simply because that was his task.

And, of course, he couldn’t give her what she needed, as all women needed from time to time. She could have asked him to see other men, and he would have agreed, but she couldn’t bring herself to take advantage of his instinct to obey without question no matter how much it hurt. _A slaver broke his will to refuse. I will not taste the fruits of a slaver’s work._

So they simply loved each other as people. It was painful at first, but the love endured. They made each other laugh when they needed to laugh. They cried with each other when they needed to cry. They spent nearly every free moment they had together. She would die for him, and he for her. But she only let him lick her cunt on the rare occasions when he plainly craved it. She could not imagine loving anyone else like she loved him, and had stopped looking for someone she could.

“Would I have to be--” _Does he know that I know?_

Jon mocked cracking a whip, to spare her having to think of the words. “No. Not on either side of it. You're welcome to try, but truly...you're under no obligation to do any of this.” _Your words are so cautious, but your smile wants to ravage me._ And it could, if it wanted to. “I’m not much in the mood to get carried away with that, anyway.” He looked his wife dead in the eyes when he said it. “A wee bit, maybe.” He smirked. “But not too much.”

Irri nodded solemnly, paused, and turned to her Hand. “Sweetling.” Her fingers touched Missandei’s cheek softly, guiding their eyes together. It caught her off guard. _Is this how she begins with Jon?_ If she did, it was less scary than she’d imagined. “We will not hurt you, we will not want to marry you, and we will not ask anything different of you afterward than we do now.” The Queen’s smile was sweet, and her reassuring look made Missandei want to bring out the wickedness so plainly lurking beneath it. “There's shit else to do here, anyway,” Irri japed. “Would you like to look at a tree, or would you like to fuck my royal husband?”

Before she could think of a reply, Irri's finger circled her lips and slid between them. _Bite it._ So she did, softly, but enough to hold it where it was, her top teeth resting just past the Queen’s fingernail.

Irri’s eyes narrowed, and she growled softly. She snapped her fingers with her other hand, and Jon was behind her in less than a heartbeat. _It would be nice to have a man like that,_ Missandei had to admit. Irri kept her finger where it was, but stood, as Jon went to work undoing her breastplate. “Up,” she commanded. Missandei glided up to her feet, and Irri’s finger left her mouth. Her lips missed it desperately, but those dark, almond eyes pulled her in, like ropes mooring a ship in a harbor, and Missandei found herself being led into the bedchamber.

Once inside, the Queen raised her arms just long enough for Jon get her breastplate off, then slid those small, delicate hands around Missandei’s waist. “Do you want this?” She asked softly.

Missandei cursed the cold weather and the heavy dress it made her wear, then felt Jon’s fingers unlacing it from the back. She nodded. “Yes.” _Do I call her Your Grace?_ Her mind was too knotted up to guess.

Her Grace leaned in. “Kiss me, then.”

Missandei’s lips had never touched a woman before, and she instantly lamented having waited so long. Irri’s tongue was soft, wet, and perfect. It teased hers, and led it in a dance as quick, graceful, and elegant as anything she’d seen at a ball, and wanton as any pleasure slave from the East. She moaned softly, surprising herself, and pulled Irri toward her, holding her waist with one hand and her crowned head with the other.

The Queen indulged her for a moment, then broke away, and yanked Missandei’s dress to the floor. “Be a good girl.” She smiled, as Missandei dispatched with her smallclothes, needing no commands. “Give your King a turn.” Irri stepped aside and let Jon take her place, peeling the rest of her clothes off herself.

Jon smiled again. Missandei wanted to scrape his lips off with her cunt. _Maybe I will_. “She's right,” he told her. “There's shit else to do here.”

His kiss was just as good as every woman in the Realm imagined when they pleasured themselves. _Fine, he can keep his lips._ Another time, she might have taken her time savoring it, but her body forbade it. _Get his cock inside you. Now._ Before she finished the thought, she had his breeches halfway unlaced.

Irri purred. “Hungry, isn't she?” She pressed down firmly on his shoulders, planting his ass in a chair. “ _Sit,_ boy,” she commanded, with a firmness that made Missandei’s cunt pulse. “Give her what she wants.” Missandei knelt and followed, refusing to let him go.

 _‘Want’ doesn't do it justice,_ she thought, as she pulled his cock out and squeezed. Just the feel of it in her hand gave her a burst of energy; a life force she didn’t know she’d been missing. _Put that life force in your fucking mouth._

So she did. _Maybe he wants to be teased,_ she realized, as her nose touched just above the base of his shaft. _Pity I have no patience for teasing._ She pressed her lips so tight and sucked so hard that she wondered if she could pop it right off. Her tongue hugged his shaft like the mast of a ship in a sudden tempest, then rolled itself around the head as she dragged her mouth upward.

“ _Fuck,_ ” said Jon, already breathless, his voice almost quivering. She supposed she should be impressed with the man this cock was attached to, and the fact that she’d surprised him with her prowess despite his marriage to the most talented mouth in Westeros. But the wits to think of such things had left her. All she cared about was how it felt in her mouth; hard, thick, and angry. She felt a hand on the back of her head, pressing it down.

 _Yes. More. Don’t let me take it out._ She moaned onto his shaft, begging, demanding, letting out her uncontrollable, base need to worship a cock that commanded worship.

Jon sensed what she wanted, and gave it to her. The fingers on the back of her head clenched into a fist, and tightened around the hair that was lucky enough to get caught up in it.

 _Open your eyes,_ she thought, her madness receding just enough to appreciate what was happening. _Enjoy this._ But all she saw was the bottom of Jon’s chin, his head having tossed itself back, as he no longer had use for looking at things or thinking. _Mmm. Stay there._ Missandei suddenly felt another hand on her head, claiming its own fistful of hair.

She found the Queen crouched beside her. “You love his cock, don’t you?” Her voice was sweet as ever, but something about the way she spoke in that moment could have brought all of Winterfell to its knees.

She looked up into those fucking eyes, all lit up like a bonfire. _Please don’t ask me to take it out of my mouth._ “Mhm…” She sounded like a terrified child, and felt like a dog being called by its master in the middle of chewing a bone.

Irri stood, but kept her fist clenched, and Missandei took in her figure. _Gods be good, that’s a figure._ Missandei knew what a beautiful woman looked like; she’d bathed with Dany countless times. Everyone with eyes admired Dany’s body, but it never made her stir like this. _You don’t want to admire it. You want to fuck it._ Her tits commanded it, and her stomach and arms and thighs dared her to refuse.

“It’s a fine one, I know.” She tightened her fist and pulled Missandei’s head up.

Her lips felt empty after they slid off Jon’s cock. She wanted to fight her way back down and finish what she started, but something stopped her.

“But don’t go too quickly, sweetling. A slut like him must earn his prize.”

Missandei nodded. Her jaw wouldn’t close, and her tongue had forgotten how to do anything that didn’t involve a cock, so it was all she could muster. _Don’t refuse her. Don’t you dare refuse her._ She knew what was happening, but no longer cared. _If this is what it means to be her slave, don your fucking collar._

Irri seemed to find her Hand’s dumbfounded helplessness endearing. She snapped her fingers and pointed toward the bed. “Edge of the mattress. On your back. _Now._ ”

The sound of that _SNAP_ could have compelled Missandei to light herself on fire, if commanded. With the royal eyes following her, Missandei hurried toward the bed and laid down as she was told, hoping it was quick enough to please her Queen. She closed her eyes. _Stop thinking, just give in._

“ _You!”_ She heard a smack to the back of a head and the moody groan of a slave who called himself a King. “Rude little shit, give that woman your slut mouth!”

That made Missandei open her eyes. _Watch her hit him._ An hour ago, that would have unsettled her. _No longer. She’s changing you._ But to her lament, she missed it, and had to settle for the sight of the most powerful man in Westeros coming toward her with his cock still poking out from his breeches, and dropping to his knees like a sack of flour between her legs. _An eager sack of flour._

Irri came over and gave him one more head smack, for which Missandei was deeply grateful. “Learn how she likes it. Don't guess. _Learn._ ” She hopped onto the mattress, ran her fingers through Missandei’s hair, and graced her lips and tongue with another soul-melting kiss.

For a moment, Missandei forgot the mattress was there, and could have sworn she was simply floating. Whether the Queen had learned it from Dany, or some bedslave, or if she had simply been born with the talent, Missandei could not be certain. _Bugger where it's from, take it._ Her lips felt things she didn't know lips could feel, so powerfully that her mind could not take it all in at once, and the rest of her face went numb.

Until the kiss broke off, and those perfect fingers touched her cheek again. She looked up at Irri, her lower lip quivering in a strange blend of gratitude, awe, and terror.

The Queen’s eyes saw all of that, and wiped it from Missandei’s mind like so much dust. “Have I been too harsh with you, sweetling?” _What?_ Missandei could barely think. _When she grabbed my hair?_ _Snapped her fingers? That was nothing._ But she supposed it was better than being pushed too far.

“No...” She was weak with lust, and surprise, and because it simply felt good to be weak. Still, she said it firmly enough that Irri would know she meant it.

Irri searched her eyes and face, and seemed satisfied. She stroked her cheek again, running her thumb around Missandei’s lips. “This is _not_ the time to grow familiar.” Something about her face warned her not to expect a second warning.

“No, Your Grace.”

She smiled. “That's what the milk men call me, to save themselves the horror of having to learn a new word.” Missandei had to chuckle and smile back. _They do hate new words._ “In here, I am your _Khaleesi._ ” Irri gave her a firm pat on the cheek. “Understood?” It wasn't nearly enough to hurt, but her eyes told her what a palm to the face meant.

 _I won't do it again, I promise._ “Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

Irri paused and grinned crookedly. “You want it harder, don't you?”

 _Desperately._ “Please, _Khaleesi_.”

Irri granted her wish. The next one stung, but not badly. _I can see how men learn to crave this. Even Kings._ “We'll leave it there for now. You're new to it.” She smiled sweetly and looked down between Missandei's legs. “Is he pleasing you?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi,_ ” she panted. “So well.” She had nearly forgotten about the King Between Her Thighs. It had all been so intoxicating that the pleasure from Irri's words, and her beauty, and her sweet, soft tyranny, and the masterful tongue on her soaked and throbbing cunt, all mixed together. _She wants it that way. So everything she does is bliss. So I beg her to do with me as she pleases._

And how could she not want to beg? Jon had been commanded to “learn” how to please her, and he was the quickest study she'd ever known. _He'll be an archmaester by sundown._ His mouth seemed to sense and remember her every move; testing her, teasing out more of her body's secrets each time he stroked and flicked and sucked. He refused to let it lie to him, or hide things, like a sharp questioning. _It's telling him things even I didn't know._

He was as good as Grey Worm, but there was a passion to it that her eunuch lacked. She knew he spent his boyhood feeling like he had something to prove, and that the scars of boyhood could follow a man his whole life. _You've proven yourself many times over, but go on, keep proving it._

Irri kissed her again, which made her quiver and wrap her legs tightly around Jon. She felt a pinch on her nipple, and whimpered in hopes of more. _Please make it hurt,_ Khaleesi. She did. The whimper turned into a moan, which yielded one in return from the Queen.

“Would you like to taste my cunt, sweetling?” Her tone made it clear that Missandei could refuse if she wanted to, but the notion of refusing her sounded mad, now.

Still, Missandei had not planned that morning to put her face in a cunt, and had never truly felt the urge to. _You've thought about it,_ she corrected herself. Though only once in a long while. _Dany, of course,_ but everyone had thought about sticking their face in Dany’s cunt at least once. _Hers was the Many-Faced Cunt._

 _What DID you plan to do this morning? Think of other lords to beg for an army, and how to beg them?_ Irri had rendered that moot before breakfast, so perhaps she should stop thinking so much and obey, as a good girl should.

Irri had expected some hesitancy. “I can have him fuck you while you do it. I wager it’s been some time since you’ve been properly fucked. Would you prefer that?” _‘I'll have the King of Westeros fuck you,_ ’ _like it's some trifle._

Missandei nodded. “I would, _Khaleesi._ ”

Irri smiled, stroked her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Beg for it nicely, then.” She slapped her. “Good girls beg for my cunt.”

“Please let me taste your cunt, _Khaleesi._ ” It sounded mad, but oddly right. “Please, _Khaleesi,_ I beg you.” _Madness has suited me quite well thus far today._

“And my slut?” Irri played casually with Missandei's hair. “Shall I command him to fuck you?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi,_ I beg you, please command your slut to fuck me.”

The _Khaleesi_ kissed her softly once more. “Such a sweet girl. You learn quickly.” She turned to Jon. “ _Slut!_ ” She snapped her fingers. “The Hand of the Queen would have your cock now.”

She said it like she were calling for a fresh cup of wine from a servant. _I can see why she craves this as well._ _It must be nice to have a cock on command,_ especially given Irri’s prior experience with cocks and commands. She thought about asking to try, but today had been strange enough already. _I'll do the commands later. For now, just give me the cock._

Jon stood, more than happy. “Of course, _Khaleesi._ ” He stepped out of his breeches, tossed his shirt to the side, and looked at her to confirm that was truly what she wanted. She nodded. _Who would object to that?_ The man was a work of art, every last bit of him. It seemed he knew it, too, but simply didn’t care. She supposed that was Jon being Jon. _He knows he must prove himself._

He dragged her by the legs toward the edge of the mattress. That alone made her cunt twitch, but the _Khaleesi_ paid no mind, and turned back to Missandei. “If you need to stop, then stop. I would think no less of you.”

“Thank you, _Khaleesi._ ” Missandei gasped, as she felt Jon tease her clit with the head of his cock. _Put it in me, slut. Your_ Khaleesi _commands it!_ She considered saying it, but before she could speak, Irri had a finger in her mouth.

 _Suck_. She did. _Give in._ She did. _Forget everything you've ever learned since the day you left your mother’s womb, so you're pure for her._ She did.

“If you please me well,” Irri continued, “I'll finish you myself.” Missandei had just enough wherewithal to find that maddeningly enticing. “And trust me, sweetling.” Irri withdrew her finger, and mounted Missandei's face as deftly as the _Khaleesi_ she was. “You very much want that.”

Missandei gasped as Jon entered her, forcing her mouth open just in time for Irri to press her cunt down, gently but tightly. As Jon filled her and began to pump, Missandei let her _Khaleesi_ ’s taste and scent consume her. They mixed together in her mind, and became the essence of the woman herself. Mild and sweet; easy to miss at first, until it got in your face and became raw, and far less delicate than it had seemed; an unapologetic cunt that scoffed at those who thought it would pretend otherwise.

The fucking helped her acclimate. Irri mercifully let her breathe, while Jon held her waist and thrust, gently at first, but deep and deliberate, testing her as he’d done with his tongue. Missandei had missed the feeling of a cock in her, more than she'd realized even moments before. Her hips tried to pull his whole body in and trap it there forever. Because it felt good. Because in the moment, she wanted to give him a thousand babies, though her last shred of wits knew that was a terrible idea. And because having her cunt fucked was a purpose for her life, other than outsmarting Lyanna Mormont.

But the more she writhed and moaned, the less merciful the _Khaleesi_ grew. Missandei felt the wetness on her chin, sliding up over her mouth, and on toward her nose. _Tease her clit._ So she did, catching it with her tongue as it ground past, pressing against it, flicking it with the tip.

Irri gasped, shuddered, and made a noise so sweet and beautiful that Missandei wanted nothing but to hear it again. She found the Queen’s clit on the next stroke and did the same, more deliberately this time; less concerned with the new and strange sensations, and more concerned with worshipping the goddess on top of her. Moaning herself as Jon fucked the life back into her, she clamped her hands down around Irri’s thighs and dug her nails in, pulling the girl down, to claim her cunt for herself. But it only lasted a heartbeat.

Irri grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. “No.” She lifted herself up and pulled back just long enough to give Missandei a firm slap and a finger on the nose. “Not without my leave, sweetling.” _I’m so sorry._ Uninterested in conversation, Irri settled back down on her mouth, but grabbed a fistful of hair to keep her eyes good and wide. “Put them behind your head. Move them again, and I’ll be less kindly about it.”

For a moment, Missandei was frustrated. Irri resumed grinding, and Missandei wanted nothing more than to bury herself in that sweet cunt she’d been so uncertain about barely a minute before. But soon enough she found there could be just as much pleasure in being denied what she wanted. She craned her neck, lifted her head up to the extent she could, and grabbed her hair in her own fists, clenching for dear life lest her hands slip out from behind her.

Irri rewarded her for her obedience, and began to grind harder. “Yes, yes, yes. More, sweetling.” The panting and moaning was the most beautiful song Missandei ever heard, and all she wanted was to keep her _Khaleesi_ singing. Irri pushed down with more of her weight. “I said _more!_ ” _Yes, anything for you,_ Khaleesi. She squeezed her thighs more tightly around Missandei’s head. They were smooth and hard, but warm and strangely comforting. _I must ask her what she does to make her thighs like that._

Missandei had seen Irri wield power before. With Lady Mormont, it required threats, bargains, and playing Sansa against her. But this was something else entirely. With her sluts, the power simply flowed to her. Irri was the wind, doing as she pleased, and she and Jon were blades of tall grass. Swaying and bending where she took them, helpless to stop her, and not the least bit inclined to try. _She wasn’t born ready for the crown, but she was most certainly born for this._

Missandei suddenly felt something spread her own thighs wider, and drape her heels over a pair of shoulders. Jon pushed her legs back and fucked harder. It caught her by surprise, which made her heart speed up, and her tongue with it.

The _Khaleesi_ answered with harder, faster grinding. _You want this now, and you'll want it again when she's done with you._ Missandei could not be certain if Jon was taking his cues from his Queen, or his own body, or hers. But whatever was moving him, it was moving him fast towards madness. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, each more ruthless and selfish and merciless than the last. _Yes. Like that. Harder. Wake the Dragon. Drain yourself of mercy. Drain your cock inside me._

Missandei’s moans turned to screams. Passionate screams, greedy and desperate; almost angry. Angry at Jon for not fucking her harder than any human being should expect to be fucked, angry at Irri for giving her a gift that would ruin her for all other gifts, and at herself for going this long without letting a man give her cunt a proper punishing. She shouted a half-formed “ _fuck!_ ” straight up Irri’s cunt, which made her scream and slam her weight down on Missandei’s face. _She’s riding me, like a cock._ She wondered if it mattered that her face was not, in fact, a cock _You’re whatever she says you are. Slut._  

She heard Jon grunt, softly at first, muffled by Irri’s thighs. Until the last one. The last one was the sound he made when he fought men twice his size, purely for the challenge. Rage and determination as he mustered all the strength he could, because it was his only choice. A warm sensation burst into her cunt, then another, then another, until it filled her. _Yes. Give it to me. GIVE IT TO ME!!_ She gritted her teeth and threw herself against him, almost forgetting the slick, throbbing cunt on top of her, marking her face as its own.

Jon slowed down, but left himself inside her for as long as he could. _Please don’t ever take it out._ But Irri was hurtling toward madness herself, and her royal cunt demanded Missandei’s attention for itself alone. _Finish her. It’s your fucking duty. Are you her good little slut or not?! FINISH HER!_

She felt a hand on her arm, pulling it from behind her head. _Yes, yes, yes._ Missandei grabbed the perfect copper thighs that held her captive, and ran her hands around her _Khaleesi_ ’s waist and down toward her ass. _Only a woman’s body could feel this good._ She cursed the gods for waiting so many years to send a woman to fill her with wine and melt away her fear. _If a woman’s body feels so good, feel it._ She slid her hands up to Irri’s breasts and squeezed, brushing her thumbs over her nipples. _Gods, that is good._

That sent Irri over the edge. Missandei felt the royal fists grab her hair again, pressing her forehead into the pillow with the balls of her palms. _Suck her clit._ She trapped it, sucked, and pressed her tongue against it, grinding just as fiercely as Irri had done to her face. The _Khaleesi_ screamed so loud, in what Missandei would have thought was terror had she not known otherwise. _It’s not terror, it’s me._ She hoped desperately that she had pleased her Queen as much as it seemed.

More screams followed, then screams mixed with grunts, then a soft groan and a loosening of her thighs and fists. Missandei gasped for air as Irri pulled herself slowly away, only then realizing how long she’d gone without taking a proper breath. Irri looked down, just as breathless. She smiled, slid her body down wordlessly, and kissed her like a man kissed his wife on his first day back from war.

Sweat and spit and cunt juice all mixed together, and Missandei felt every bit the wife. The flavors melted with each other, until it was no longer her taste, or the Queen’s, but one new, inseparable substance. It seemed as if they were the same person, and she never wanted to be anything else.

Irri broke off the kiss. “I owe my slut a debt,” she grinned, stroking her hair as lovingly as any man had ever stroked it. “And I mean to make good on it.”

Missandei threw her head back as Irri kissed slowly down her stomach. She grabbed her Queen’s hair, too engulfed in lust to care about permission. _I'll gladly take the slap for it._ But Irri seemed to welcome it, purring and kissing harder, biting playfully on her way down.

Only then did Missandei notice Jon laying next to her, silently grinning at the ceiling like a fool, blissful and content. _Silly boy._ She took one hand from Irri's head and grabbed Jon’s. “Come here.”

They kissed, and the two souls inside her became three. Jon's tongue felt as good in her mouth as it had in her cunt, and he seemed to thirst for the taste that Irri had left in it. _Rightly so._ She let him in, to taste as much as he liked.

Then came the warmth between her legs, and her body and mind gave out. Her cunt was soaked and twitching and freshly fucked, and Irri’s mouth had no business mastering it so easily. Daenerys may have done many things that were half-mad, but overturning a thousand years of tradition to marry this woman was not one of them. _She'd have been mad not to._ No gods had ever done anything for any man that could compare to what this little Dothraki girl could do with her tongue. _Anyone who can lick a cunt like this deserves a thousand crowns._

Missandei was sensitive from the thorough pounding Jon had given her, and Irri seemed to know precisely how sensitive, and where, and to what kind of touch. _Only a woman could know that._ She started slowly, until the sensitivity melted away and turned into pure pleasure and greed for more. Irri the _Khaleesi_ was gone. Irri the Queen was long gone. The head between Missandei’s legs was Irri the handmaiden. Sweet, dutiful, and selfless; concerned with nothing but Missandei’s pleasure and satisfaction. She ran her fingers through the girl’s short but thick black hair and guided her, though she needed guidance like a Dornish stallion needed water and rest.

She shook and let the dead weight of her legs drop onto Irri’s back, weak and useless, and whimpered into Jon's mouth. He seemed unsurprised, and kissed harder, pressing her head down into the pillow with a gentle but firm hand on her neck. _Why choke your new slut when the old one will do it for you?_ But she welcomed it gladly, moaning and pulling him closer by the back of his head.

It could not have taken more than a minute before Missandei felt her cunt pulsing into fast-building madness. She gripped Irri’s hair, and would have ground her cunt against her face just as fiercely as the _Khaleesi_ had done to her moments earlier, had she still had the strength to do it. Jon broke the kiss as her screams grew louder, but she wanted to feel his lips on hers, so she gripped harder and pulled his head back down where she wanted it. _Where it belongs. Because that's where I fucking said it belongs._ She could grow accustomed to that.

But not now. Ruling required presence of mind, and Missandei had no such thing. Somehow, her body found the strength to pull Irri’s head closer and buck her hips, twisting and writhing and arching her back. She let go of Jon's head and lost herself to the woman between her legs. _Make me yours. Please, please, please make me yours._

The scream she let out when she hit her peak was piercingly loud and untethered from any sense of shame or self-restraint, and made her throat sore as she came down. For a moment she simply laid there with her arms at her sides, frozen and stunned, her mind as spent as her body.

Irri crawled between Missandei and Jon, and gave him a brief but deep kiss. “You left that there.” She smiled and playfully twisted his nipple. “That was rude of you.”

Missandei took a moment to realize what she meant, until she saw him swallow. _Should I think that strange?_ She was too tired to care, and far too happy.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Jon grinned, half-joking.

 _Don’t make me think of a response to that._ All she could give him was a shrug and a laugh. _‘Bugger it, why not...’_

For half an hour or so, they simply laid there, all three recovering. Irri changed back to the same woman Missandei had known since she boarded Dany’s boat in Astapor. Quiet and unassuming, playful and innocent, and a shameless gossip.

Lady Martell had been fucking some landed knight or another. “And he’s married, too. Very scandalous,” said the Queen, as she petted her Hand and her husband at once. Jon seemed utterly deaf to the chatter, as would most men who listened to nonsense like that for ten years, and looked like he could go to sleep in an instant. _And he would, were it not so rude to his guest_.

Irri insisted Missandei no longer address her as _Khaleesi_ , and questioned her at length about how she felt, whether anything had hurt her more than she wanted, and whether she enjoyed herself. It was almost excessive, but in some ways Missandei’s mind was as raw and sore as her cunt, and a lesser woman could easily have left her in great pain. _A lesser woman with silver hair did that to her, and more than once,_ she suspected.

It was decided that Missandei would sleep in her own chambers, not because she was unwelcome, but so she could be alone to reflect on whether she wanted to be with them again. _Yes._ It was then decided that the previous ruling should not apply to naps, and further decided that once their nap was over, they should spend at least a few hours running the country. “At this very moment, Edd Tollett is ruling Westeros,” Jon reminded Irri, grinning and knowing how much that terrified her.

There truly was shit else to do in Winterfell, so they played together more days than not, as they waited for their host to gather. King and Queen both held fast to their word, never hurting her, never professing to love her as more than a dear friend, and treating her no differently in front of others. Irri left her tyranny in the bedchamber, and Missandei felt no fear of giving her honest counsel. Ten years ago, their game would have tied Missandei in knots. _‘Do I love them? Do they love me? Are they using me? Am I using them? Should I refuse them? Do I have such a right?’_ But she was half a girl then, and some time around her thirtieth name day, such knots became too silly to tie.

But the Realm had plenty more for her. The purge in King's Landing had gone well enough, and that was the problem. Tyrion had reclaimed his title of “Demon Monkey,” and while the streets of Flea Bottom were calm again, the Father’s Justice seemed to have simply moved from the city to the countryside, where they were not so easy to round up in a single sweep. More troubling were the Dothraki they brought with them. A minority, to be certain, but enough to put together a passable cavalry and claim a number of villages. The minor riverlords had taken notice, and were beginning to play both sides of the game. None had openly declared for the rebels, but many were believed to have aided them with food, weapons, and shelter.

The news led to debate about Edd’s plan to hire Eastern sellswords. Jon warned that sending a Northern army to fight in the Riverlands with no way to tell when they’ve won would remind the Northerners of Robb Stark and the Riverlanders of Tywin Lannister. Irri insisted that she would rather be Tywin Lannister than an abettor of slavery, which led to a pointless argument about whether Tywin’s dealings with Eastern merchants abetted slavery as well, which ruined the war council for the afternoon, and the fucking that night.

Equally concerning were the Northern lords, who were receiving the same news, and grumbled ever louder about marching south. Mormont, surprisingly, was their greatest help. She’d taken a great liking to Vazzi, and boasted about her to anyone who would listen, as if the child were her own. “My letter to Stannis made him wroth,” she was fond of saying. “This one would have made him piss himself.” Not everyone was so enamored with the brown-skinned dragonspawn, however, and it was becoming clear that if they were to march south, men would need a reason to march behind them.

After a fortnight, Irri’s scolding of Lady Mormont had yielded the massive host she wanted, and the castle and surrounding town were teeming with Northern soldiers. Some were children of summer who had never seen war, but most were gruff men who had fought the dead and won, and seemed more bored than fearful at the thought of marching south to chase off some shoeless zealots.

But what amazed Missandei the most was the tiny brown woman with the deceptively sweet voice who had brought these men together, watching them from horseback as they pulled up stakes and readied themselves to march.

By rights, that woman should be pouring wine, or on her back while some Ghiscari noble flopped about on top of her, But instead, she had clawed her way from nothingness to the head of a Northern host, by deciding that the “rights” the world lived by were relics of the past, and writing new ones herself. A handmaiden, who stood athwart a conqueror’s fury and became her wife, heir, and successor, when so many others had been burnt to ashes. Who woke that morning next to the man who saved the world from death itself, locked his cock in a cage, and smiled lovingly as he thanked her for it.

That man rode next to her, and their even tinier brown children on ponies behind them, in black armor and rubies, as if they would lead the van themselves. She’d raised this army to defend those children, and doubtless they would one day lead armies that would make this one look like some petty lord’s hunting party. _She ordered a man murdered in secret to stop him from telling an uncomfortable truth,_ Missandei reminded herself. But she marveled that after everything this woman had seen in her life, she’d only had to do it once.

Missandei rode a few lengths behind, with Edd, and the Ladies Stark and Mormont. If a man had said a month ago that Her Grace alone would bring those two to her cause, Missandei would have called him mad. _Win or lose, no one can deny there is greatness within her._

She was no fool, though, and she knew Irri had much to prove, and little time to prove it. _If she thinks Northern lords are backward, she should meet the smallfolk._ For all their loyalty to Jon, they knew they were fighting this war because of the wife he’d chosen, and still not convinced she was worth fighting for. _Her brownness, her foreignness, her war._ Leading an army generally required more than a cursory knowledge of warfare, and a knack for rallying crowds, and Irri had neither. _‘Get as many horses as you can, and run across the field screaming.’ She knows that much._ She had a rallying cry as well. _“Athtihar anna! Anha’m vo driv!” ‘Look at me! I’m not dead yet!’_ That worked wonders with the Dothraki. _But not this lot._ Still, someone had to say something, so Edd and Missandei helped Jon prepare.

They stopped in the center of the grounds. “Northmen!” He shouted, to get their attention. A crowd began to form. “I’m going to give you the sort of speech a King sits on a horse and shouts at an army. And you’re all going to stand here and listen.” _That was Edd’s bit._ But given the audience, it was a perfect opening. Missandei looked at Irri. _This is what they respect._

More men came to hear their King. _Respectful,_ Missandei judged, _but skeptical._ “I’m not asking you to fight this war for me,” Jon continued. “Nothing is so special about me that thousands should die in my name. I’m not even asking you to fight it for my wife or my children. I’m asking you to fight it for yourselves, _your_ wives, and _your_ children.”

Some of the soldiers moved closer. “These men want to raise your taxes to build septs, and force you to worship in them. They want to take away your rights. Rights that no one here has had before. Right that have made us all better off. Rights _my wife_ has given you. I may have kept you all alive, but that was years ago. It’s _your Queen_ who made Westeros what it is today.” _He’s atoning. Good boy._

The crowd remained silent. “I know some of you think her a savage who knows nothing of the North.” Missandei braced for an ‘Aye!’ from the crowd, but mercifully, none came. “But she’s known the North since she was a girl. When she was nothing more than Daenerys’s wedding gift, it was a Northman who protected them from assassins, and from Dany’s own brother. It was a Northman who got them across the Red Waste with no food or water. It was a Northman who saved them time and again, even when he could have abandoned them, or murdered them and gotten rich for it.” _Because he wanted Dany’s cunt._ But that was beside the point.

“Ser Jorah taught my wife the meaning of fierceness, duty, honor, and loyalty, as only a Mormont could.” Lyanna looked proud. “He taught her how to do what’s right, not what’s easy. He taught her to wake up every day and press on, no matter how painful, and to _never_ surrender, to enemies, or fear, or doubt.”

He raised his voice, angry at having to spell out what he thought was plain. “A lesser woman would be long dead. But Jorah Mormont taught her to fight like a Northman. How to _lead_ like a Northman. And now here she bloody stands.”

Some of them stood up taller, as if they’d just realized she was royalty. _He shamed them. Good. They needed it._

“When I'm gone, they'll write books about what a brilliant job I did commanding an army.” He paused. “I was alright, I suppose.” _You're smiling again, you little shit._ But he needed the levity, lest his speech become a scolding.

“But my greatest feat was not commanding an army. It was building one. Today, I mean to build an army of men whose lives are better now because of this little brown woman behind me, with the funny accent, who happens to be the love of my life and the mother of my children.”

Jon commanded his bannermen’s standard bearers to line up next to each other, so columns could form behind them. When they were ready, he continued. “If you have a child who learned to read before you did, get in your House’s column.”

A few men stepped in line, hesitantly.

“If you married your wife because you love her, get in your column.”

More men trickled forward, less hesitantly.

“If you’ve been sick, and had a maester care for you, get in your column. If you have more food for this winter than the last, get in your column.”

The trickle slowly grew into a stream.

“If you’ve brought crops to market in White Harbor and sold them to merchants from all over the world, get in your column.”

 _He’s speaking well. Too well._ Missandei got close enough to Irri to speak in a hushed tone. “Do not try to speak like this,” she whispered.

Jon was far from whispering. “If your father lived off the land, but you earn a fair wage, get in your column! If your daughter can earn a wage without spreading her legs, get in your column!”

Forced to speak louder, Missandei switched to Dothraki, so only Her Grace would understand. “Power does not come from speeches. Not for you. Not from them.”

Proper columns were taking shape in the field. “If you have no noble blood but you own land anyway, get in your column!”

Irri nodded along silently as her Hand spoke. “Power comes from actions. From proving you know how to use it.”

“If you’re a smith, or an armorer, or a stonemason because that’s what you _want_ to be, get in your column!” Jon moved backward, to make room for the growing columns.

“If you fought your last war with a pitchfork, but now you’ve got a real sword, and real armor, and you know what the bloody hell you’re doing, get in your column! If you’re young, and haven’t done any of that, but it sounds better than shoveling shit you whole life, _get in your bloody column!_ ”

After a few minutes, the camp had formed into a proper host, ready to fight for a woman they’d mocked in their cups the night before. _They did it for Jon,_ Missandei still suspected. _But they did it._

“Will you fight with me, to keep what my wife has given you?” Jon got an obligatory cheer.

Missandei knew she was running out of time. “Do to them what you do to me in the bedchamber. Tell them you’re their leader, and _lead!_ ” Irri stayed silent, and had kept her eyes on Jon the whole time.

“Will you beat back the men who would take it from you?” As expected, the next cheer was less obligatory.

Irri finally looked toward her Hand “ _Anha tiholat._ ” ‘I know.’ She grinned. “ _Mezhah._ ” That made Missandei’s cunt tingle. _A whore, but only when you make me one._

Jon was about as excited as Jon got. “Will you show these shit-covered madmen what the North does to _anyone_ who would take its freedom?!” That gave him the raucous shouts he was looking for.

“Good! Now listen to your Queen!”

Irri took a deep breath, nodded at Jon, and stepped forward.

“His Grace spoke very well.” She paused. “And I will say no more. You would not care, even for the most beautiful speech I could give. Nor should you, until you’ve seen me lead. Watch me, then.” She wheeled her horse toward the Kingsroad and shouted back. “For your children, and mine... _March!_ ”

Irri waited just long enough to see their first steps for herself, then turned her head forward. Missandei followed, finally letting herself exhale. It was not the first time she found herself at the head of an army, led by a woman who had no business leading it an hour earlier. _Perhaps she was born to rule, and Daenerys merely to clear her path._ She looked up. Fluttering hard in the stiff autumn wind, were a three-headed dragon, two stallions, a direwolf, and a bear. _Perhaps I should not say ‘perhaps.’_


	4. Jon II

“Rise,” Jon commanded the whore. “And you can put your clothes on.”

The poor girl could barely raise her eyes to meet his, let alone stand. “They took them, Your Grace.” _Such pious men._

He looked around the ransacked hall of the Inn of the Kneeling Man, and found his own Northmen already looking for ale and silver. _Can you at least wait until I leave the room to start looting?_

“Are you all savages?!" His shout silenced the room. "Get this woman a bloody cloak!”

Sheepishly, one of his soldiers finally helped the woman to her feet, and draped a cloak over her.

"Better. Now go, and have the men set up camp. We'll stay here and regroup." As the men filed out, Jon righted an overturned bench and motioned for her to sit next to him. “What do you know of the men who were here?” His tone was considerably less harsh.

The whore knew more than most would admit to knowing. The rebels who had occupied the inn were all from nearby farms and villages. After a few weeks of preaching and proselytizing at the local markets, they roused the smallfolk in the middle of the night and packed them into the village sept, while their newly fanatical Dothraki rode in and looted everything of value. As they combed through the town, they chose townspeople they thought would have something useful: gold, or skill at a trade, or a young cunt. When there was no more gold, smiths or maidens left, they would declare the sept too decadent, burn it down with the rest of the townspeople in it, and move on. She’d survived only because Jon’s men had caught them unawares, and taken the inn before they could finish their slaughter.

“Did you see their leader?” Jon asked.

Before the whore could respond, a soldier came back inside. “Your Grace.” Jon looked up. “There’s a ship on the river.”

He nodded before turning back to the whore. “We'll find you some proper clothes," he assured her, his eyes darting over to the soldier. "If any of these men give you trouble, find me. I’ll deal with them myself.”

The galley outside was massive, and plainly not built for rivers. On its aftcastle flew a peace banner, but there were no other markings. Unable to dock lest it tear its hull open on the rocks, it furled its sails in the middle of the river, and dropped two anchors to hold itself in place against the current. A boat was lowered off the side and men began to climb down into it. Jon squinted to make out who they were. The man who appeared to be their leader was clean shaven and dressed unremarkably, but Jon instantly recognized the face. _This must be some kind of jape._

“I’ll meet him inside,” he told the soldier. _Lest he think I’ve been waiting on the docks for him to rescue me._ “Find my wife and send her to me as well. Tell her to enter alone.” He hurried inside, hoping he wasn’t spotted.

The soldiers had found some ale, and left a cask sitting out. Jon poured himself a horn, gulped it down, and wiped his mouth.

Irri entered in her riding leathers, and Jon poured one for her as well. “What is it, my love?”

Jon took a deep breath, shoved the horn into her hands, and poured yet another for his guest. “My favorite person.” He guided her over to the bench, and they sat facing the door.

The man entered and took a knee, more humbly than the last time Jon had seen him. _He wants to go unrecognized._ Irri struggled not to spit out her ale.

“Enough of that. Come here, Magister." The King waved Daario Naharis toward the table and slid him some ale as he sat.

Daario grinned and raised his cup. “Freshly stolen,” he japed, like the little shit he was.

Jon ignored that. “Why are you here? And don’t say it’s to help me.” His tone was flat.

“To help you,” he grinned that smug, punchable grin of his.

“Why would you help me? And don’t say money.”

“Money.” The grin grew more punchable by the second, as Jon put his hand on Longclaw’s hilt.

Daario’s smile boiled over into a laugh. “You asked me, so I told you!” _‘You asked me, so I told you,’_ Jon mocked silently, in a half-wit’s voice. “If you lose your crown to these zealots,” the Magister explained, “my most profitable market is gone. Do you think I can sell silk here if the Realm is ruled by fanatics? Of course not. It’s too decadent. Same with wine. Too decadent. Spices, lace, scented oils...all too bloody decadent. All they drink is water, all they eat is potatoes, and all they wear is roughspun cloth. I can’t make money on that.”

“Is money _all_ you care about?” _Money buys whores. That’s what he cares about._

“Would you prefer I only care about the gods, and help the rebels overthrow you? Or your late wife, and offer you no help at all because she’s gone?”

Jon stared for a moment, to deny him the satisfaction of an answer. “We’re quite a way from King’s Landing. How did you know where to find me?”

“You’ve got half the North marching behind you, waving banners and banging drums, and a bloody dragon above you. You’re hard to miss, and word travels quickly. Perhaps that's why you’ve got such a rebellion on your hands, but so few rebels.”

 _Stop making sense._ The Northmen had been spoiling for a battle since they crossed the Twins, but found only burnt villages and the occasional cluster of drunk zealots. The rebels seemed to always fade away just before his army could strike. Jon left men to secure every town and holdfast they passed, but there was rarely anything of value left to guard.

“I know you think I’m a pompous sack of cunts,” Daario continued after another sip of ale. “But I did keep my word the last time I was in Westeros, you must give me credit for that. You told me to leave, and I left.”

“You did.” _You also_ _fucked my wife up the ass,_ Jon wanted to add, but he decided to feign ignorance and take his measure. _Above average, but not by as much as he thinks_ , he wagered.

“I’ll be blunt, Your Grace. You pride yourself on your fairness and humility, yet the rebels call you a debauched tyrant anyway. So you march through the Riverlands with a twenty-thousand-man mummer's troupe and nothing to show for it, and now you look like a fool on top of it. You can't crush this rebellion without doing violence, but you make more rebels every time you do. So let me do the violence instead.”

“Let _you_ do it.”

“I have more sellswords in Pentos than I know what to do with. Let me set them loose in the countryside.”

 _This was Edd’s idea._ Still, he scoffed. “I’ve been marching for weeks, Magister. I have no patience for this.”

“I’m entirely serious, Your Grace. My men will do the killing that needs to be done, but in their own name, not yours. I’m paying them with my own coin, and none of them know I’m here. As far as they know, you’re the enemy just as much as the rebels are. I need nothing from you but your promise not to attack them.”

“If I get reports of Eastern sellswords marauding around the Riverlands, I’ll have to send men after them.”

“Of course. Just make certain they have time to flee before your men get there. From what I hear, that’s not too difficult.” He leaned in, and did his best to look sincere. “There will be no more damage than necessary. No looting or raping. You have my word.”

Jon rolled his eyes. _If you have to listen to this cocksure little shit, you may as well toy with him a bit._ “I know what you did when you last came to Westeros.” That got his attention. “You planted--” he feigned a cough, to let Daario remember what he planted, and wonder what Jon would do about it. “You planted the notion in her mind that she should start a war in Essos she had no business starting.”

Daario laughed. “She would have done that anyway. You know how she was. When she wanted something, she took it. She wasn’t one to ask permission.”

Jon knew Daario was playing with him as well, which only made him angry. “It killed her, you know. The thought of another war drove a man to madness, and he took her bloody head off.”

Daario looked at him sideways, then at Irri, then back at him. He was almost startled; almost smirking. “You think _that’s_ \--”

He was standing before he realized, with his hand back on his sword hilt. “Aye, I know it!” He felt his wife's hand on his arm.

“Sit. Please, my love.” She looked troubled. Jon reluctantly obliged.

Daario seemed to take note of that. “Then why haven’t you taken mine in return? You’ve got twenty thousand Northmen around you, how could I stop you?”

 _I was waiting for you to finish your ale. Dulls the reflexes._ “You’re a guest under my roof.”

“This is some dead innkeeper’s roof, not yours. You’ve received me because you need me. You need men to do your dirty work but keep silent about it. As does your wife.”

The sellsword’s eyes darted over to Irri, and Jon’s followed. Until now, she’d seemed almost bored, but he could sense a sudden, grave tension in her.

“If you don’t trust me, let me prove myself,” Darrio went on, “let me bring twenty men to Saltpans. That’s all. I’d wager you could kill all twenty yourself if they started trouble. If they keep the peace for ninety days, we’ll speak further. If not, do with me as you please. Talk to your wife about it. I’ll leave the room.”

He looked to Irri again. Her face was almost pale. _Why does she fear this fool so much?_ “Very well. Close the door behind you.”

“Let him do it,” Irri insisted, as soon as Daario left the room.

“You want to let some money grubbing sellsword run roughshod over the Riverlands? That's madness, _why?!_ ”

“You liked it when it was Edd’s idea, now it's beneath you because _he_ suggested it?!”

 _And it was beneath you when it was Edd’s idea, now you love it?_ “It has nothing to do with who suggested it.” _Fine, maybe a wee bit._

Irri tried to stare him down, but crumbled. “Please, Jon. Twenty men at Saltpans. How much worse could that make things? Please.”

He looked at her askew. “You don't want to fuck him, do you?”

“No, I don't want to fuck him!” _Why was that such an absurd question?_ Jon would never understand it, but apparently that was a thing people enjoyed. “Please, at least think about it.”

Jon gave her one last sideways look. “Perhaps. _If_ he does it on my terms.”

They met Daario outside. “We won't rule it out,” Jon declared. “But we have to finish the march to King’s Landing, or it will raise questions. If you're so eager to help me, you'll do it my way, understood?”

Daario nodded.

“Good. Sail for King’s Landing. _Now._ I’ll send a raven so they know to expect you. Stay dressed as you are, enter through the Mud Gate, and stay wherever they decide to put you in the Red Keep. No whores, no feasts, no bedding courtiers. I’ll give you my decision when I return. Have your men stay in Pentos until I command otherwise.”

“Very well,” the sellsword replied. “I wish you good fortune in...whatever you’re doing here.”

 _Funny man._ “Safe travels, Magister. I’ll see you in the capital.”

Daario strode toward the pier, where his men were waiting in their boat. Jon watched him row back out into the river, board his ship, and raise anchor.

“Are you alright, my love?” He asked, as soon as the ship disappeared around the riverbend.

Irri’s face was once again unreadable. “Did you take this inn because it’s important to the war?” She replied.

 _You didn’t answer my question._ “Why else would I take it?”

She grinned and pointed to the sign above the door, of the King in the North on his knees. “To be a coy little slut.” Jon could not help but blush, and felt his breeches tighten. He hadn’t been a proper slut since they left Winterfell. Sluttiness was a noisy business, and while rumors about Jon had abounded for years, he thought it unwise to confirm them for all to hear.

“I do believe you’re trying to distract me.” That was a sad attempt to stop himself from growing weak, and they both knew it.

“I am, my love,” Irri smiled. “I need it. _You_ need it.” She stood on her toes and stole a bite on his earlobe. “Don't you,” she whispered, as she led him inside.

 _Yes._ The notion that he was fighting a war, and thus not in need of a distraction, faded to the back of his mind as his wife led him upstairs. _You're thinking too much again. Stop it._ “Did you choose a room?” He asked, almost lightheaded, when they reached the top of the stairs.

Irri laughed. “They’re _all_ mine, until I say otherwise.” Her hand planted itself firmly over his crotch, and squeezed. “Just like this.”

 _Mmmm._ He was fairly certain he made a noise to the same effect. A bit of pain filled him, and long-missed fear, washed away by the relief of helplessness.

“Whose is it?” Her Grace gave it a firm tug.

“Yours…” _You’re supposed to call her something._ “ _Khaleesi._ ” It had been a while since they’d had the luxury of calling each other what they truly were.

Irri smiled, stroked his cheek, and took his hand, once it was plain that his cock was hardening just fine on its own. “That’s my good boy. Come.” She led him into the largest room and kicked the door shut behind her.

Jon watched his Queen strip. She was slow enough about it to be torturous, but plainly wanted to get on with it just as much as he did. When she finished, she unbuckled his belt as they both fell into a deep kiss.

He moaned into her mouth, and felt her take Longclaw and gently drop it to the floor, still in its sheath. _Yes. Free me from it. All of it. The power and the trappings. That's the most famous and valuable sword in the world. Toss it on the floor like a pair of old socks. It's nothing. All of this is nothing. Pleasing you is everything. Free me from the lie that it's not._ Knowing precisely what he was thinking, she freed his belt from its loops and wrapped it around his neck, good and tight. He sighed softly. Nervously. Eagerly.

Irri plopped lazily onto the side of the mattress, guided him down to his knees with a tug on the belt, and draped her legs over his shoulders. On the side table was a flagon of wine, and a cup that she must have poured for herself earlier.

He moved his head toward the scent of her cunt, his mouth already watering, but felt a palm on his forehead before he could reach it. _Where are my manners?_ “May I, _Khaleesi?_ ”

All he got in response was a tug on his belt, but it was all he needed. He went to work, slowly teasing her clit, as he’d been taught. The hair on her mound was perfectly trimmed to tickle his nose without distracting him from his duty. It made her scent that much stronger. _Woman. Queen. Khaleesi._ He looked up at his owner, propped up on her elbows, sipping her wine. White hands ran up copper thighs, and Jon blushed as her fingers ran through his hair.

“Good boy,” Irri smiled. “Take your time. Be gentle.”

Jon did as he was bid; kissing, nibbling, dragging his tongue against her clit; watching the pleasure as it coursed through her body. It started with her hips, bucking and rolling. Her stomach stretched as her back arched, then her chest grew full and her shoulders spread as she took a deep, moaning breath. Her neck flew back and her eyes disappeared from his view. _Show her how good you are._ He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth tighter against her, but resisted the urge to speed up his tongue. _Go slow, until she commands otherwise. Don’t finish her. Just kneel in awe and do your duty._

For weeks, when Jon looked at his wife, he saw only a figurehead. A _cyvasse_ piece. A walking stack of political risks and liability, small and foreign and suspicious. He saw a list of things she would need to prove before the Northern army would trust her; the paradox of convincing men to fight for her without fighting herself. He saw Sansa and Lady Mormont; how they’d treated her, how furious she’d been, and how she’d dragged them back into the fold.

But now, even with his eyes closed, Jon could finally see a woman. The one who’d carried his children, and who owned him, inside and out, politics be damned. The soft, perfect body that had slept next to him for what now seemed like forever. He heard her soft moans, with the faint hints of her voice. The voice that comforted him during some of the darkest days of his life, that melted him into a puddle with a whisper, that growled commands that filled him with the most beautiful terror he’d ever felt. Her legs tightened around him with ever-growing strength; the strength that raised her from livestock to royalty, and kept her alive against scheming lords, rapists, slavers, and the monster inside the woman she’d once loved.

He moaned softly; the thoughts alone enough to make him even harder than he was. He buried his head closer between her thighs, but kept his slow, gentle pace, even as the lust inside him grew maddening. But before long, the fingers in his hair converged into a fist, the mindless petting grew into a tug, and the belt around his neck tightened just enough to remind him that breathing her air was a privilege. _Yes,_ Khaleesi _._

Jon was no fool, and knew that a command to “be gentle” only lasted so long with her. Maybe it was the roughness of the people she'd been born into. Maybe she found some badly-needed comfort in the fervor of a man who wanted nothing more than to please her. Whatever it was, Jon knew that a tongue on her cunt never failed to bring out the tyrant hidden inside her, and he thanked the gods every time he was lucky enough to serve and worship her in the way a proper tyrant demanded.

Her hips went from rolling along to Jon’s rhythm, to thrusting on no one’s terms but her own. “More! Yes, yes, more!” She demanded, pressing her cunt against the stubble on his face.

He opened his eyes, grunted a “Yes, _Khaleesi,_ ” and gave her more of what was rightly hers. More of his tongue, his lips, his scratchy beard, and the devotion and strength of will that only a self-made King could possess.

Irri’s body drank it in like a parched man drank water. She gulped down the last of her wine and tossed the cup over her shoulder, letting it clang against the wall behind her and crash to the floor beneath.

Jon found something about that incredibly arousing. A hint of some playful violence was always a beautiful thing in a woman, but there was more. _She has servants to clean that up, and she likes that._ For as much as she went out of her way to treat them well, Irri had grown well-accustomed to having men and women at her beckon call, and thought it wasteful not to give them something to do.

And like the rest of her servants, Jon suddenly had plenty to do himself. With no more distractions and nothing to think about but her lust, power, and lust for more power, Irri’s grip on his hair grew tight enough to hurt. Her mound pressed more forcefully against his nose, demanding no less than all of him, reminding him what came before all else, as if he’d ever forget.

“Lick it, boy! I said _more!_ ”

Jon obeyed, losing himself in his duty; basking in the debasement; forgetting everything else but the relief that only servitude could bring. His lips sealed themselves around her clit and he began to suck and roll and flick like the wanton bedslave she’d made of him.

“I need this,” she panted. “I need it...you’re _mine,_ little slut, do you hear me?!” A moan passed her lips that she seemed not to expect, and she yanked on his hair to punish him for being too good at his job. “ _MINE!!_ ”

He found his hips grinding on their own volition, as his cock throbbed inside his breeches, straining against them, as if it could burst through them if it tried hard enough. _You’re humping your own clothes without her leave. Stop that._ That took effort, and frustrated him, so he channeled that into his labor, and thanked her for it. _She makes me a better slut for her, without even saying a word._

Irri took one hand from Jon’s head and gripped the sheets with it. She slid her body closer to the edge of the mattress and pushed herself into his face with all her weight; wrapping her thighs tighter around his head to cut off his air. Muffled as they were by her thighs against his ears, Jon could tell by her screams that she was close to her peak.

 _Now. She's ready. Finish her, boywhore._ His mouth had latched itself tightly to her cunt, and his whole body squirmed to keep it right where it belonged. Each scream was louder and longer than the last, until it sounded like she was being murdered, or had gone mad. _So much for no one hearing._

“All over your _SLUT_ face,” she growled, “just how you like it.  _RIGHT?!_ ”

Jon didn’t care. All over his slut face was precisely how he liked it, and in that moment, he would have welcomed any man with qualms about it to take them up with Longclaw. He moaned onto her clit, finally sending her over the edge, throwing her cunt into a fit of pulsating spasms, and the rest of her thrashing and twisting and marking him as hers alone.

With his face properly coated in his _Khaleesi_ ’s royal scent, Jon rose as he felt Irri’s thighs and hands loosen, and the weight of her legs leave his shoulders. He growled softly and hungrily, looking down at her naked body as it recovered, sensitive but still writhing mindlessly, and plainly in desperate need of a proper pounding. He almost took it upon himself to provide her with one, but remembered his place and stopped himself.

Irri smiled and kicked the tip of the belt, that Jon realized was still dangling from the front of his neck. “Gimme,” she demanded, like a spoiled little girl. As commanded, he removed the belt from his neck, and handed it to her. She looked at him, smiling that evil, playful smile. “Strip.”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” He lifted his shirt over his head, quickly enough that she wouldn’t punish him for teasing, but slowly enough to let her ogle his body as it revealed itself. Her Grace flashed him a grin soaked with pure evil, and folded the belt as he tossed his shirt to the floor, snapping it with a _CRACK_ that made his mouth water. _Please beat me with that,_ his eyes begged.

When he went to unlace his breeches, she sat up, swatted his hands away and did it herself. But the fire in her eyes did not burn as hot as it normally did when his cock came out. Her smile flickered, and rather than take it into her mouth, or roll over to present her cunt, she simply patted the mattress beside her.

“Lay next to me, sweetling.” Her face apologized on her behalf. “Just for a moment. We have time, for once. Let’s make use of it.”

Jon swallowed his disappointment like a good boy, and did as he was bid. As his body hit the mattress, those dark, almond eyes of hers dissolved whatever frustration he’d felt a moment before.

Irri stroked his cheek. There was a strange fear in her eyes; a sadness that Jon hadn’t expected. “We’re losing this war, aren’t we?”

“We’re not, my love.” _We’re not winning it either, though._ If they were winning, Daario’s head would be floating down the Red Fork. “We’ll beat them.”

Irri held his chin and locked eyes with him. “Do you _know_ that? Truly? Or is that what you think I want to hear?”

 _I don’t know about you, but it’s what I want to hear._ “I’ve beaten far worse, you know that. When we defeat these men in a proper battle, they’ll give up and go home.”

Irri pressed him gently onto his back and ran her finger aimlessly around his chest. “What if I lose _you_?”

 _You won't._ “If I’m meant to die in battle, it won’t be against these fools.”

She slid her hand down toward his cock, and teased the shaft with those soft, perfect fingers of hers. “I asked what I would do if I lose you. I said nothing about dying in battle.”

Jon was confused and uneasy. “Why do you think you’ll lose me?” Irri looked away. _I don’t like this._ He clutched her arm. “What’s this about?”

“That night in Winterfell.” _Aye, that night in Winterfell…_ But if she still felt any guilt, she in the way she kept toying with his cock gave no hint of it. “I should not have done that.”

If anything, Jon was less bothered by what she'd done, and more by how she couldn't let it go. _People make mistakes,_ he thought. _Just leave it be._ It was inconsiderate, he'd grant her that, and he knew he'd feel terribly if he'd done the same to her, but he simply could not bring himself to dwell on it like she did. “It was a hard day, and your blood was up. I’ve forgiven you, truly.”

“I raped you, Jon.”

Jon scoffed. “You did not ‘rape’ me. I was tired, that's all. If you raped me, I think I’d know.”

“Would you?” That caught him off guard. “Or would you explain it away as your duty, because of how we love each other?”

“That's not--”

“It's quite nice to think like that,” Irri went on, still stroking his cock. “Until it's too late. I've made that mistake many times, and so have you. Every minute of every day with Daenerys, we were either declaring our undying love for her, or being tortured at her hands, or threatening to leave her unless she stopped.” _She's not wrong._ “I can't live like that. Daenerys controlled herself just enough to keep us, because she did love us, in her own half-mad way. And I only know that because she had no other reason to spare us. She could have had anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, and she had the dragons to scare off anyone who would object. _I_ don’t have that. I cannot be as careless about this as she was.”

“And I appreciate that, but--”

“ _Don’t_ appreciate it. It’s my own selfishness. Where would I go if you set me aside? The castle that’s been in my family for centuries?”

Annoyed as he was at where the conversation was going, his cock thoroughly enjoyed where her hand had gone. “I understand.”

“No. You don’t. You’re a fine man, but you don’t understand that, and you never will.”

 _So I’m back to knowing nothing?_ “Fine, then. But I can’t pretend to be more upset about it than I am. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

Irri sighed, and brushed her fingertips along his shaft. “You’re not upset about it because you knew I wouldn’t murder you. Not because you trusted me, but because you knew you could fight me off if you had to. I can’t spend my whole life wondering if the only reason you’re with me is that you’re fairly certain you could beat me in a fight.”

Jon had nothing to say. _Stop thinking. Let her use your cock._

“I can lose a war,” she went on. “All they can do is kill me or make me a slave. But I can't lose you. With death and slavery, you at least know what you are. Without you, I don't know what I would be, or where I would go. That scares me, Jon.”

“If you’re so terrified that you’ll lose me if you touch me without my leave, why have you been stroking my cock this whole time?”

“To see if you’d stop me. Do you want me to stop?”

His breathing grew a bit heavier. “...No.”

“Are you saying that out of fear?”

“No.” _Fear of what? Should I be afraid?_

“Are you saying that because you’re the sort of man who loses his wits as soon as someone touches his cock?”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want me?”

“Of course I want you.”

She squeezed. “Prove it.” _Gladly._ Jon moved to roll on top of her, but she stopped him. “That proves nothing. Men can close their eyes and mount anything.”

“How should I prove it, then?”

She put a finger over his lips. “By keeping your mouth shut and holding still, like a good boy.” Her fingertip slid between his lips, wiping away everything but her words. “You’ll either grow soft, or finish on your stomach, or writhe around until you’re so mad with lust that you beg me to take what’s mine. But you’re not close to doing any of that, yet. So close your eyes, and let your own body lead you to me, if that's where it would truly go.”

 _Making me beg her to fuck me is a strange way to apologize for a rape,_ Jon thought, but once he closed his eyes, somehow it made perfect sense. _‘Push me away if you want. No harm will come to you,’_ he could feel her telling him. _‘I would do anything to earn you back.’_

For a few moments, Jon truly considered his options. _She's giving you a chance to say something without saying it._ That was rare in this world. He marveled at how much time he spent trying to pry out the true meaning of men's words. _Even hers._ Jon had long ago accepted the fact that he would never truly understand half of what most women ever said to him, and he wondered if women felt the same about him. _Pointless to ask,_ he realized. _I wouldn't understand the answer._

The irony made him chuckle, which turned into a gasp and a soft pant as it escaped his mouth. _Maybe she's right. Maybe my body says all there is to say._ It seemed that every time he gave himself over like this--body and mind at once--he learned a greater truth about himself, and his nature, and hers, and the world’s. _But it shouldn't have to be like that._ His wife should not have to tug on his cock to get the truth from him. _Good boys know themselves better._

He thought about saying the word “please,” but thought better of it at the last moment. _She's not done teaching you. It's not begging, now. It's asking. Demanding._ Was that not the same? _No._ He was fairly certain of that, but with each pump of his cock, the subtleties of the Common Tongue grew ever cloudier.

The Queen seemed to sense his struggle, and found it amusing. “Would you like my mouth, sweetling?” She kissed his forehead.

 _That's a stupid question, and you know it._ Irri was every bit as arrogant about her mouth that Jaime Lannister had been about his sword when he still had two hands, and her arrogance was every bit as justified. _She's toying with you_. But that swaggering confidence just made him want her more. _Because you're her toy._ He nodded and groaned in the affirmative.

She stroked his hair and tugged his earlobe. “This is a test, little slut. Not a reward.”

Jon nodded again, and felt the _Khaleesi_ slide down his body. When she took him into her mouth, it felt like his cock had vanished into an abyss of torturous pleasure, and he moved a hand down to her head, partly to guide her and partly to make certain the world below his waist still existed.

Then came her tongue. _Oh, it most certainly still exists._ Jon would never know precisely what she did with it, but he was grateful for that, else he’d have half a mind to outlaw it. Her tongue was soft, with just enough texture to make his cock come alive with even the smallest movements. And the way she wrapped it around him, or rolled it, or whatever she did, enveloped him completely and wiped everything else from his mind. He rolled his hips, because what the bloody hell else was he supposed to do?

Irri played along at first, moving her head along with his body. Until she stopped. “Is that enough for you?” She taunted as she went back to using her hand, her thumb brushing over the head of his cock.

“No,” he managed to whisper. She squeezed. “No, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Are you certain?” She asked. Jon looked down, expecting a wicked, teasing grin, but was met instead with steely eyes and a stone face. “You could have this from any woman alive.” Her grip was tight, but Jon could sense she was more interested in truth than pleasure. She glided her tongue up his shaft and took him back inside, but only for a moment. “Why me? Tell me why you want me.”

His cock felt dangerously exposed without her mouth around it. “Because nothing else could ever feel this good.”

Irri raised an eyebrow. “Have you put your cock in every mouth in Westeros?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then how do you know?” Jon had no reply to that. “You don’t, and you never will.” She teased the head with the tip of her tongue. “Try again.”

Jon was so hard that it was growing painful. “You’re the mother of my children.”

She smiled, slid her lips back over the head of his cock, and sucked wantonly, again, but only for a heartbeat or two. “Better, but you wanted me before that. Why?”

“Because you rule me like I need to be ruled.” Irri purred at that. _Give her more,_ Jon thought, as he felt her mouth on his cock once more, this time for a heartbeat or two longer. “Because you’ve made me a better man. Because I’m lost without you.”

Her face grew serious again. “You rose to greatness before you even knew I was alive.”

 _Bugger my greatness, please, just fuck me._ He was running out of words. “But I was never this happy.”

She kissed up his shaft. “My cunt makes you happy? And the rest of me...?”

 _Is this some riddle?_ “Please…”

Irri’s face lit up. “Please what, sweetling?”

“Please.” _Stop making me think of words._ “Fuck me. Mount me. It’s yours, please, just take it.”

She giggled. “You’ll finish too quickly now, silly boy. What shall we do about that?” He squirmed, looked down, and finally saw the wickedness in her eyes he’d been expecting. “Perhaps some pain would help?” She said it like she were tempting a child with a sweet, and that was precisely how he felt.

 _Anything for you. You_ must _know that._ “Yes, _Khaleesi._ Please hurt me.”

Irri considered it. “No.” She took him back into her mouth. Something about that infuriated him. _You made me crave pain, now you’re torturing me with pleasure. You cruel bitch, gods, I love you so much._ But it was over as quickly as it started. “I want to hear you beg more.”

“Please hurt me, _Khaleesi_. Please. I don’t want to finish too quickly. All I want is to give my body in service to you. Please, hurt me, in the name of all the fucking gods, _please!_ ”

She dug her nails into his shaft, and her thumbnail into the head. “Like this?”

Jon could feel the pain tightening his face into a grimace. “ _Fuck…_ ” He gasped. “Yes, thank you _Khaleesi!_ ”

His cock stayed hard, even as she dug her nails in deeper. _I’m sorry,_ Khaleesi. _I’m sorry I’m such a wanton slut for pain._ Jon writhed as Irri pressed until the pain grew blinding, and his body could no longer feel anything else. _You're the only one who can hurt me so beautifully._ He clenched his teeth and let out a scream of pain and fear and lust, all mixed together, like one of those Dornish dishes with a hundred spices he'd grown to love.

Irri reached over and snatched the belt, laying on the mattress, still folded as she’d held it before. She slid it down over his cock and pulled her hands apart. The leather _SNAPPED_ , hard, like the jaws of some beast sinking into him in the worst possible place. “Did I tell you to stop begging?!”

Jon let out a grunting scream of pure pain. “ _No, please!!_ ” He arched his back, slammed his palm against the mattress, and tried to pull away on reflex. She released him, only to give him another _SNAP_ of the belt and yank him back where he belonged, like pulling the reins of a bucking horse. “ _Please fuck me,_ Khaleesi, _PLEASE!!_ ”

She tossed the belt aside and gave his cock a backhanded slap, as hard as she’d ever slapped his face. It was quick and hard enough to blind him with pain. “ _Anni! Nhomi zichome!_ ” She shouted harshly as she clenched her hand back around his cock.

Jon recognized the words “mine,” and “bitch,” and took her meaning. That knocked his head out of the clouds, and he could finally feel himself starting to labor to stay hard. As soon as she sensed it as well, Irri released her grip, climbed on top of him, and grinned, proud and amused with herself. “Good boy.” She grabbed his cock and teased the head against her clit. “ _Viqaferati. Alikh._ ”

He knew those words; she’d made sure of that, years ago. _‘Beg. More.’_ “Please, _Khaleesi_ , I need your cunt, _please!_ I need it, I need it, please, _please_ , I beg you!”

She held it just outside as the head grew back to its full size. “You’re mine, now and always, yes?”

 _So close. So, so close._ “Only yours, _Khaleesi._ Now and always.” _I hope you already knew that._

But she still wanted more. “Walk away now, and no harm will come to you. I swear it.”

 _Why would I walk away from this?!_ Jon would have found her preoccupation with losing him troubling, but he was too preoccupied himself to give it much thought. “No, please, _Khaleesi,_ I need you, you know that, _please!_ I’m yours until the day I die.”

Finally satisfied, Irri slid down and gave him the sweet, soaking cunt he longed for so badly. “You’re a strong man,” she told him, her voice quivering as she cupped his face with both hands, and ran them from his cheeks down to his chest. “A brave man. Tell me you know that.”

Jon had been told that many times, by many people, so he assumed it was true. “I know it, _Khaleesi._ I do.” He groaned, as she began to ride him harder.

“You’ll win this war for me, yes?” He felt the power of her weight more and more.

“Of course, _Khaleesi._ ” Jon had no better idea how to do that than he did that morning, but somehow he felt a comforting certainty about it.

“And for our children?”

 _Do you truly think I need to be inside your cunt to care about our children?_ “I’ll fight for them to my last breath, _Khaleesi_.”

“Will you give me another?”

 _Mmmm._ If the third child was anything like the first two, it may well drive him mad, but in that moment, it was all he wanted. For all the games they played, nothing raised Jon’s blood like the notion of putting a baby in this woman. “Yes, _Khaleesi._ Yes, please let me give you another child.”

She put a hand around his neck and squeezed. “Then give me your seed, boy. Fill me. _Breed_ me.”

Jon rolled his eyes back in his head and savored the pressure on his neck; the grinding of her cunt; warm, tight, and wet; hungry and selfish. _Just take it right out of me. Every last drop. It’s yours_. _Use it as you please._ He reached up and pulled her down to kiss her, as his cock began to throb and pulse. When the kiss broke, Jon opened his eyes to find hers waiting, staring him down, their foreheads touching.

“I need you, sweetling. You’re my _life._ ” She kissed him again, bit his lower lip, and dragged it through her teeth as she pulled away. “Tell me you know that.”

Jon was overcome, and could do nothing but collapse back onto the mattress as the pleasure took him over. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. _Win another war, raise another child, forsake everything else. Beg her, fuck her, thank her for the pain. Give her your seed when she wants it. Deny yourself when she doesn’t. Don’t--_

The sting of her palm struck his face. “ _Tell_ me you know that!!”

In truth, Jon had forgotten what he was supposed to know, but if she'd said it, he was certain it was true. “I know it, _Khaleesi!”_

 _You're her life_ , something reminded him. _But not like the others._ He was tired of people saying they owed him their lives. _Do they think I wasn’t fighting for my own life as much as theirs?_ It embellished his achievements, and cheapened the true nature of the threat. It blinded them to the whole lesson that he and Daenerys had been shouting from nearly the beginning; that one feat of courage does not absolve a ruler of the duty to serve his people.

 _But she said nothing about owing me her life. She said I_ was _her life. That’s different. That's--_. His mind and body froze before he could finish the thought. _‘She commanded you to fill her cunt, not to parse her words.’_ It had been years since he'd heard that voice, but his response was every bit as quick and sharp as it had ever been.

His moaning turned to screaming, then grunting, then primal growling as his cock pulsed once more, then gave her what she and that long-gone voice demanded of him. _More? You want more? Take more._  It had been several days, and there was plenty more for her to take. And she did. Because she could. It was hers by right.

Irri climbed off of him nearly as soon as she finished and fell onto her side, to stop him from leaking out of her. They kissed and cuddled and gazed in silent adoration, until they could speak again.

“You’re not going to lose me, you know,” Jon reiterated. “And if you die at the end of this war, it’s because I died defending you.”

Irri stared off. “I know, sweetling.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ll accept Daario’s offer, if it means that much to you. You’re right. I liked it when Edd proposed it. I shouldn’t be blinded by my own pettiness.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, sweetling.”

“We’ll feast the officers tonight,” Jon had decided. “They need it.”

“ _I_ need it,” Irri corrected him.

“You do. You have yet to show these men you can lead. If you want to earn a soldier’s respect, and you can’t fight, you’ll have to do the next best thing.”

“And that is?”

He smiled. “Drink.” The fermented mare’s milk she’d been drinking since she was four gave his sweet, tiny wife a freakish power to out-drink some men thrice her weight _._ “If ruling were a drinking game, you'd be Empress of the known world.”

“Pity it’s not, then,” she flicked one of his nipples.

“You should rest for now. And I should inspect this alleged ‘camp’ we're making.”

As Irri napped, Jon milled quietly about the camp in the clearing that surrounded the inn, making a point of not drawing attention to himself. No crown, no Longclaw, no absurdly long coat with half a dead wolf on the shoulders. As camps went, he’d seen worse, but the defenses were thrown up lazily, and the men had plainly grown complacent from the easy march.

He stumbled upon a crowd of soldiers gathered around an archery target, clapping, and shouting advice and encouragement. He kept quiet, standing in the back of the crowd for just long enough to catch a glimpse of the light brown-skinned boy at the center, and confirm his suspicion. _A marksman at eight._ Aemon took his time between shots, and stood closer to the target than a grown man would. But his form was fluid and impeccable, and he’d landed nearly all of his shots near the center. Even if he were terrible, none would be so stupid as to mock the Crown Prince, but Jon could sense these men were genuinely impressed.

 _Good,_  he thought. This war was not like the last. No matter what he said in his speeches, Jon was asking these men to fight for his family. He could not rely on fear of certain death to keep his army behind him. _If they don’t take as much pride in him as I do, they’ll question why they’re here._ Jon knew he was not a fair judge, but as he saw it, there was plenty about the boy to be proud of. The trick was to let the men realize that on their own. _And get past the color of his bloody skin._

“Well done!” The King finally shouted, once Aemon’s quiver was empty. The men seemed to notice him for the first time, and parted so he could make his way toward his son, muttering compliments as he passed. Jon mussed the boy’s jet black hair, then turned around to face the men. “So well, in fact, that you’ve made the men forget about digging latrine pits, and setting up perimeters, and sentry posts, and campfires, and securing the supply train, and feeding the horses…”

The muttered compliments turned to muttered apologies, and the men scurried off to do what they should have done hours ago. _While I was fucking my wife,_ Jon reminded himself. _It’s no more their fault than mine._

He took the boy’s hand and smiled down at him. “You're getting good.”

“They say I’m the best archer they’ve ever seen, Father!” _Of course they do._ Aemon was a sweet boy, but like anyone of such high birth, he was prone to truly believing the praise heaped upon him, deservedly or not. _He needs some humility._

“You’re better than most your age.” Jon was wary of adding too much praise to the heap. “And that's good, you need to know how to fight. But there's more to ruling than being a good fighter.” He led the boy toward the perimeter of the camp, resuming his inspection. “Sometimes you have to watch your men dig ditches. Ditches help you defend your camp. Ditches can decide wars just as much as swords and arrows.”

Aemon was noticeably unimpressed. “Maester Samwell says the dragons may lay eggs soon. _Dragons_ win wars. If I can ride--”

Jon did not like where this was going. “Do you remember when Mother took you to Flea Bottom to feed the poor?”

Aemon made a face. “I remember.”

“What sort of people did you see there?”

“Dirty people.”

 _You should thank the gods your mother didn’t hear that._ “No,” Jon corrected him firmly. He dropped to one knee and met the boy’s eyes at their own level. “You saw _people_ , just like you. They were dirty because they had no clean water. Bathe them, and the dirt washes right off. You saw orphans, and widows, and cripples. You saw men who were so broken that all they could do was lay in a gutter and drink. _That’s_ what war makes of people, and you can’t fix that with a bath.” The lecture had plainly put a damper on his son’s day. “Queen Daenerys’s dragons helped save the world, but they also--”

“Father?” Aemon cocked his head.

Jon sighed. Yes?” He always grew uncomfortable when his children asked questions about Dany. “Maester Samwell said Queen Daenerys your wife when she lived.”

 _Ah, bugger me._ He dreaded the day they’d start asking  _those_ questions.  _Maester Samwell should have told me this was coming._ He hesitated. “She was.”

“And Mother is your wife now.”

“She is. And she was my wife when Daenerys lived as well.”

“At the same time?”

“Yes, at the same time. The three of us loved each other. In fact, we’re fighting this war because some men still mislike that.”

“Why?”

“They think it's wrong that we don't follow the Seven.”

“That's dumb.” _Oh, I know._

“And they don't like that Queen Daenerys was my aunt.” He paused. _If he’s old enough to ask, he’s old enough to know._ “And they don't like that Mother has brown skin and comes from Essos.”

“But why?”

“Because some men think that everything should be the same as it’s been for thousands of years, and that people from different places are all scary savages.”

“But _why?_ ” _If I knew, I'd bloody tell you!_

“They just do. It's the nature of man. It’s hard for people to change their ways.”

“That’s just--that’s so stupid! Mother’s not a savage!”

Jon simply shrugged and put an arm around his son. _Bugger it, tell him_. “These men who don’t like your mother and me...they think we never should have wed. And if we’d never wed, we wouldn't have made you and your sister. And that means some people think you shouldn't be King.”

“But they don't even know me!”

“And that's a greater loss than they will ever understand. But you should know that before you don your crown.”

The look on Aemon’s face made Jon wince. _It crushes me too, child._ “How am I supposed to rule, then?”

Jon cupped the back of the boy’s head. “Well, that's a good question.” That wasn't the answer the boy was looking for, but he needed to understand there were no easy answers. “Some men would say you should kill everyone who speaks out against you. Some would say you should do whatever you can to curry favor, and hope they forget who you are. What do you think?”

Aemon stared at him blankly.

“I'll give you a hint. They're both wrong.” That only made it worse. Jon met his eyes. “It's no easy thing, and we'll talk about it a great deal more. All you should know is that we don’t choose who we love. Daenerys was not perfect, but at her best, she made your mother and me very happy. Some day you’ll meet someone who makes you that happy. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, don’t trouble yourself with what other men think. And  _never_  apologize for it.”

The boy only grew more confused.

Jon had to smile and chuckle to himself. _Thank the gods, we're both out of ideas._ He rose back to his feet and took his son by the hand. “You’ll understand when you’re older. But as I was saying. Ditches. Ditches are very important.” Aemon learned more about ditches that afternoon than Jon realized he could teach.

The feast that evening was not the grandest affair he’d seen, but they’d slaughtered enough boar for a much-needed respite from salt beef and hard cheese. Jon sat at the dais with his wife, and the Ladies of Winterfell and Bear Island. He opened with a toast to the men, and the North, and the freedom they were fighting for. He promised a quick march to King’s Landing to deliver Lady Mormont to the Small Council, and announced that the Royal Army would share the burden of guarding the Riverlands. “As the Crown’s army grows, you’ll all go home to your families,” he vowed.

Lady Mormont rose next, as Jon had specifically requested before the feast. “I’d like to raise a cup for the Queen,” she began. That surprised the men. _Good. Now please, stick to what we talked about._  “When we left Winterfell, she promised to show you she could lead. There have been no true battles, but it’s not her fault the rebels are too craven to face us in an open field.”

A soldier in the back raised his cup, already drunk. “To the rebels!” The room broke into applause, and the nobles all smiled and raised their cups, joining the men in their toast.

Lyanna motioned for quiet. “You may not know Her Grace very well, but I’ve come to admire her. She’s a good woman. She loves our King, and her children.” She turned to Irri and smiled down. “Truly, I’m proud to march alongside her. She’s fiercer than she looks, and, if His Grace’s boasts are true, she can drink half of you under the table. I’d like to see that.” The room stayed silent, waiting for Irri to accept the challenge.

The Queen stood, and raised her cup. “I promised you no speeches,” she told the men. “Only deeds.” With that, she tipped her head back, and swallowed the cup of ale in four seamless gulps. “Southron pisswater,” she declared, after slamming the cup back on the table, wiping her mouth, and suppressing a belch. “It is known!”

The officers clapped and murmured.  _They did not expect to see that tonight_.

“It is known!” Shouted that same drunk man in the back.

Laughter broke out, and the room roared in agreement. “ _IT IS KNOWN!!_ ” Jon never understood why that was such a fun phrase to say. It simply was. And he was glad the Northmen agreed.

As Jon smiled up adoringly, Irri held the cup behind her for a squire to refill, and commanded him to fetch mead from the supply wagons. From the cheers that got, she may as well have been leading a van. She turned her eyes back to the men once her cup was full. She paused, eyes narrowed, as none of their cups were raised. “Are you afraid of a little brown girl? _Drink!_ ” So they did.

Jon watched the spectacle unfold for a moment, then waved over a serving girl. “I see you’ve found some clothes,” he smiled once he recognized her. _And a promotion, of sorts._  “Have my men treated you well?”

“They have, Your Grace.”

“Good. Fetch my wife some food, before--” _How do I say this without calling the Queen a sot?_

The whore smiled knowingly, rescuing him. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The feast went on as feasts with Northern soldiers tended to. Men toasted each other, sang, bellowed death threats across the hall, and laughed raucously. They grew sloppy after a few hours, as Irri had kept her promise to show them her iron stomach, and no one wanted to be the first to admit defeat.

Then it crossed a line. A soldier had taken it upon himself to remove the whore’s dress and pull her into his lap. Soldiers often flirted with serving girls, and while Jon never loved that, he knew it was futile to try to stop it. But when his eye caught a pair of tits hanging in plain view, his vision turned red.  _This girl's suffered enough._ He moved to stand, but his wife stopped him.

“If all I do is drink, all they’ll do is mock me.” _She’s right,_ he realized. “Let me teach them respect.” Cup in hand, Irri strode calmly toward the man. The room went from shouting and raucous laughter, to subdued muttering, to tense silence. She picked the girl’s dress off the floor, waved her away from the soldier, and set her cup down on the table. The man looked up at her, nonplussed. “Rise,” she commanded. “Put your arms out.”

The soldier hesitated, but obeyed, sensing he would get no help from the others.

Irri slid the dress over his arms and head, and yanked it down over his boiled leather vest. It was far too small, and looked absurd, which was precisely the point. “Any man who mistreats a serving girl,” she declared to the room, “will _be_ a serving girl.” She emptied her cup onto the man’s boots, then took a flagon from the table and shoved it into his chest. “Pour.” She had to crane her neck back to meet his eyes, but trapped them all the same.

Nervous chuckling spread through the room as the man poured Her Grace’s ale. Jon blushed and took a bite of his meat, more aroused than he cared to show.

When her cup was full, she turned back toward the room. “Who’s thirsty?!” Hands shot up from every corner. “Go on, fill their cups. Wench!” She slapped the man’s ass and pushed him into the aisle.

The other soldiers did the rest, groping and jeering and tugging at his dress. The Queen returned to her place, and sent the squire to fetch one of her own dresses for the whore. Jon kept his head forward and his voice low, so as not to draw attention. “Mayhaps I mistreated a serving girl,” he smirked.

Irri put a hand on his knee. “That’s a great crime.”

He pushed his leg closer to hers. “Then I suppose I must face the Queen’s Justice.”

The Queen ran her hand lecherously up his thigh, and kneaded his manhood. “I’m warning you, it’s swift and harsh.”

They marched for King’s Landing the next morning, with Irri’s head pounding, and Jon’s ass still red from all that justice. Miserable as the first day was, the rest of the journey was as uneventful as it had been since Winterfell, and they reached the capital in just over a week.

Tyrion and Pod met them in the bailey of the Red Keep when they arrived. Edd reined up alongside Jon and dismounted first. “Well, that was a right waste of time.” He tossed his gloves at a stable boy.

Sansa and Lady Mormont strode up from behind.

“Is that my good lady wife?” Tyrion smirked.

Sansa smiled back, knowing it was only a jape. “Shut up.”

Edd gave both of them a sideways look, and sighed. “I haven’t had a proper shit in weeks.” That was the last anyone saw of Edd.

Lady Mormont nodded at Tyrion, stiff and silent, which was as warm a salutation as the Imp would get from her. Tyrion knew better than to press the matter, and Pod led her and Sansa inside.

Tyrion sighed and looked up at Jon as he finally slid off his horse. “She’s a charmer, that one.”

 _Speaking of charmers..._  “Is our friend still here?”

“He is, Your Grace. In the black cells.” Tyrion smiled, knowing Jon would enjoy that. “For his own protection, of course. We needed him safe from prying eyes at court.”

 _Brilliant._ Jon smiled back. “Yes, of course. Protection is paramount.” He did the Magister the courtesy of receiving him in the Throne Room the next morning, accepted his offer, and pretended to apologize for the accommodations.

They met again on the docks a few days later, in the dead of night. Jon counted Daario’s men. Precisely twenty, as promised. At Jon's insistence, the ship would be crewed by Northmen. Loyal ones, who couldn't be bribed. Before he disembarked, Jon pulled Daario close and looked dead in his eyes. “You'll sail directly to Saltpans. You'll stay in Saltpans. You’ll root out the rebels keep the peace. You and your men will touch no coin and no women. You'll let the townsfolk go about their lives. And if I hear the faintest hint of trouble, I’ll march up there myself, and crush you into dust. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “I understand, Your Grace.”

Jon turned to the captain. “Take their swords and lock them away somewhere safe. Don't give them back until their feet touch the ground.”

For some reason, Daario found that amusing. He chuckled as he handed his sword to the guard. “I’m not going to murder the captain, Your Grace.” He gripped Jon's shoulder, hard, and smiled. “That’s an old trick.”


	5. Irri II

“Dead!” Irri’s dancing master proclaimed, in his Pentoshi accent. He removed the tip of his sword from the boiled leather that covered her perfectly intact abdomen. “But you lasted much longer than yesterday. My Queen learns quickly.” That was high praise from Nevio Haratis, who spent most of his time mortally wounding her, and inviting her to try again. “Shall we finish for today?”

“No,” Irri replied, catching her breath. Her sword arm was heavy, and her skin coated in sweat, but she was determined not to end the lesson until she could no longer grip her sword. She rested a hand against one of the massive columns in the Throne Room and waited for her strength to return. _Not unless you can call off the feast._

Lamentably, he could not. Nor could she, nor anyone.  _Valar...feast...-is._ Lady Sansa had invited herself to stay in the capital for over three months now, spending her days charming courtiers, getting her toenails painted, flitting in and out of Small Council meetings, and giving her opinion whether she was asked for it or not. She sailed for White Harbor on the morrow, which Irri welcomed wholeheartedly, but it meant yet another night of sitting on that gods-damned dais, force-feeding herself by her own hand. It made her feel fat for days, and she’d be every bit as fat as she felt were it not for the constant exercise.

 _A feast when we arrived at Winterfell, another when we left, another at the inn, another when we got back to King’s Landing, and yet another to see off Lady Stark._ She found it silly how the milk men thought that being in one place one day, and somewhere else the next, was cause to celebrate. In the _khalasar_ , the only alternative was death.

In some ways, she missed being a little girl on the Great Grass Sea, riding along with the _khalasar_ in a cart, jumping off whenever she grew bored, running along with other children whose names she’d long-since forgotten, shrieking and giggling, naked as her name day. _Save for the collar._ She was a slave, but her captors never seemed concerned that children of that age would stray from the horde, and they preferred their child whores too tired to resist at the end of the day. So they let her have her fun, and gave her time to savor the day, and try to forget what pain and terror would come at night.

She caught Nevio pacing around aimlessly, catching his breath himself. Behind him was the Iron Throne, empty but menacing. Irri insisted on practicing her water dancing here, as the sight of the Throne focused her nothing else could. She was under no illusions that she could fight off a gang of armored knights, though she was good enough to at least make them work for the privilege of murdering her. _Why must it always be about men sacking the castle and murdering you?_ That was a silly question. _Don’t be a fool. You know why._

Nevio’s back was to her, and her strength had returned, so she decided to lunge at him and catch him off guard. The attack began perfectly, but her foot landed flat on the marble floor with a loud _clap_ , giving her away. Nevio turned, his sword met hers and blocked her cut, and they settled into the familiar dance of thrusts and parries.

“Sideface!” He barked, thrusting his sword forward, barely missing her belly before she turned. “Just so!” Her form was near flawless, but only when she had time to think about it. _You attacked without thinking. You had time, but let it go to waste._

“You’re hacking like a knight again! Use your wrist!”

 _He's right, this is better_ , but not for the reason Nevio had in mind. The motion made the sword feel more like a whip, which made her imagine Nevio’s body as her husband’s back. Her mind began to float in a pool of lust, giving her a burst of energy and making her just a bit quicker and surer with her blows. Nevio’s eyes widened slightly as he adjusted to her sudden, newfound skill. _That's right. Take it, slut,_ she commanded the image of Jon in her mind.

It made her wonder if he could truly take a beating with her sparring sword. It was dulled, and even a real Bravo's blade was not designed to cut a man with the edge. _No_ , she nonetheless decided, _it would still break his skin too quickly._ Perhaps she could have the smith make one a bit lighter, and cover the blade in tight, thin leather. _Mmmm._ Her cunt tingled at the notion, exhaustion notwithstanding. _Black leather with white stitching. A silver stallion’s head on the hilt_.

Her tingling was rudely interrupted when Irri found herself being backed up the steps toward the Throne. _Don’t trip._ But the instant she thought about tripping, her back foot slipped on the top step, and her sword arm flailed as she tried to keep her balance.

“Dead,” Nevio grinned, poking her firmly in the stomach yet again.

Irri fell backwards into the Iron Throne, wincing as her ass hit the jagged metal. _And now, I’m in Hell._ She let her sword clang against the floor, and once again caught her breath.

“Truly, Your Grace, you’ve become quite good,” Nevio assured her, as he put his sword back on his belt. “I do not say this as flattery.”

“You still beat me every time,” she grinned breathlessly.

He smiled back. “Perhaps someday soon, I will not.”

Before she could reply, Lord Varys appeared beside her, like a ghost. “Your Grace,” he nodded, eyeing her strangely, as if he’d just witnessed some scandal. _No, I'm not fucking the dancing master._ “Your presence is requested in the Small Council chamber.” She would rather her presence be requested in a pit with an angry bear, but she never had such luck. “Shall I tell them to wait until you’ve dressed?”

 _Bugger that._ “No, I’ll come now.” She was red-faced, sticky and stinking, and her hair was an utter mess, but that mess would have a crown on top of it, and that was all that mattered.

Varys bowed and escorted her to the chamber. Irri sat between Missandei and Jon, who took it upon himself to pour her some water. _Good boy_ , she smiled at her sweetling. He’d gotten quite proficient at serving her without the need to exchange words.

“What news?” She asked, still recovering from the multiple deaths Nevio had inflicted.

“Some of the Northmen near Harrenhal have abandoned their garrisons,” Tyrion informed her. “The rebels seem to have taken back a few villages and holdfasts.”

Irri sighed, though in truth she could not blame them. The rebels had been less bold since the Northern army arrived, but they persisted in causing what trouble they could. Everyone from the lowest ranking Northern soldiers, to the King and Queen themselves, were tiring of it--and that was the point. “Surely between the lot of you, someone has thought to order them found and executed.”

A tense silence fell over the room, and all eyes turned to Lady Mormont. _Perhaps I am in a pit with an angry bear._

“I will not send Northmen to punish other Northmen for refusing to do the Crown’s business a thousand leagues from home.” _That's precisely what you swore to do when the North bent the knee._ Lyanna and Vazzi nearly worshipped each other, and she and the Queen were disturbingly close to becoming friends. But at Council meetings, she was every bit the stubborn cunt she’d been when Irri was still the foreign whore’s handmaiden. “We marched south to fight zealots who threatened our way of life, not to break up every squabble in the Riverlands like a wet nurse with unruly children.”

The eyes then turned to Irri. _‘You manage this, Tamer of Bears.’_ Irri’s turned to Missandei. _‘You brought her here.’_

“You're right, my lady, and we do not intend to ask that of them.” Missandei’s twentieth language was diplomacy. _She speaks it when she knows I won’t_.

Irri scanned the room. _Today feels like a ‘cogent arguments punctuated with subtle, smiling threats’ day._ She inhaled, expecting the arguments to appear from the ether, but none came.

Lady Mormont rolled her eyes. “...But?”

An argument finally came to her. It was not what she expected, but far more cogent. “But nothing, my lady” The tension changed to the sort the Small Council felt when no one in the room was certain what a monarch was about to say. “The North did what was asked of it. Your men must know they will not be away from their families forever. We’ve been ‘building’ a Royal Army for years. They may not be ready for an all-out war, but they never will be unless we blood them.” No one expected that. _Good._

Missandei spoke again, less helpfully this time. “Your Grace, Grey Worm says--”

“Grey Worm is a fine commander,” Irri cut her off, “but he wants these men to be perfect, lest it shame him that one of their shields had a speck of dirt on it when they went to battle. Half the Dothraki still scoff at marching in a straight line, yet they did as much to save this land as anyone. Command him to send half the King’s Landing garrison to the Riverlands. Half the Sunspear garrison, as well. They’re just diddling themselves, anyway. Have them sail at once. They can join the others to relieve the Northmen. _All of them.”_

“As my Queen commands,” Missandei nodded. Jon smiled, and put a hand on her knee under the table. _Oh, you like that?_

Mormont looked stunned; almost angry that she’d been denied the chance to use whatever barbed retort she’d planned. “I--they can go home?”

“As soon as our men arrive. No tricks, my lady. All I ask is that you find those deserters. The laws against treason are not subject to men’s opinions on a war.”

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Mormont replied. “Truly.”

Tyrion sat up and cleared his throat. “Speaking of Saltpans…”

Jon groaned. “What’s he done?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Surprisingly enough, nothing. It’s been ninety days and Saltpans shows no hint of a war. The port is as bustling as ever--by Saltpans standards, which is not saying much. Still, I’ve heard the word ‘bustling’ used to describe the port there.”

“ _Who_ used that word?” Jon pressed him.

Tyrion hesitated and sighed. “People, who spend a great deal of time with people, who spend a great deal of time on ships.”

Jon donned the ‘Jon has no patience for games’ face.

Edd translated the Tyrionese. “Whores.”

The dwarf nodded sheepishly. “Some of the better whores, yes.”

“Whores,” His Grace repeated. “You trust them?”

“If they help me, they're rich; if they betray me, they’re dead. It’s a useful little trick my father taught me.” _Your father, who is both rich and dead._

Jon considered that, and seemed to conclude it was as good a trick as any. “I assume he’ll want to bring men into more places, then.”

Tyrion nodded. “I recommend Maidenpool and Lord Harroway’s Town. They’ve got valuable ports, and Easterners draw less attention there.”

Jon signaled his assent. “Make it happen, then.” He turned to Varys. “But confirm those reports with someone who isn’t fucking Lord Tyrion.”

“Good luck with that,” Edd muttered to himself.

“As you command, Your Grace,” the eunuch replied.

Jon scanned the room. “What other news? Are we pickling enough vegetables?” _Oh, gods, he'll be on this forever. Remind us again what season is coming?_

Irri discreetly smelled her armpit, and scrunched her nose in regret. “I’m sorry, my lords,” she broke in. “I came here straight from my morning exercise. Perhaps our Hands can manage the food supply while His Grace and I freshen up.” She kicked Jon under the table. _That means I want to fuck you, you beautiful dullard. Everyone knows. No one cares. Please don’t prattle on about vegetables._

The Hands nodded, and Irri rose. Jon hesitated. She would have yanked him up by his hair, but apparently that was rude to do in public, so she tugged his sleeve instead. “Come, my love.” _In me._

She had Qezza draw a bath when they reached their chambers, but dismissed her as soon as she did. “Undress me,” she commanded her King. It was a simple command, as she had worn only linen breeches, a blouse, and a vest to protect her from the swats of Nevio’s blade. As Jon knelt to unlace her breeches, she kicked a shoe off and shoved a foot in his face. “Filthy boy,” she smiled down at him as he kissed her sole, grinning and blushing and proving her point.

Like the good boy he was, Jon dutifully folded her clothes and put everything back in its place. Irri slid into the hot water and let out a relieved, shamelessly loud groan. Needing no commands, Jon stripped, folded and put away his own clothes, and returned to her. She sat up and stretched, so Jon could kneel behind her and wash her back.

“It seems you were right about Magister Cuntface,” said King Cuntface, as he squeezed the sponge and let the water flow down from her shoulders. “Though it's a bit odd he's still in Westeros. He's got three cities to rule. Why does he need to stay on the other side of the world and command a handful of sellswords?”

Irri preferred not to think about that. _Please, just keep him happy._ “I mean to visit the smith later,” she responded, ignoring him. “I had a rather wicked thought.”

“The smith?” There was a tension in his voice that betrayed just enough fear to make her cunt stir. _Would that I could drink that fear like water._

“You'll see, my love. It won't hurt you any more than I want it to.” She tossed her neck back and smiled up at him, with his furrowed brow and red cheeks that did such a piss-poor job of hiding his lust for pain and helplessness.

Jon put his thumbs on her temples and rubbed gently, caressing her cheeks with his fingertips. _Mmmm._ “And if I want it to hurt more?”

She reached up and guided his head down to hers. Her other hand slid down between her legs. _Oops._ “Surely you know what to do by now, sweetling.”

His lips hovered an inch from hers. “Beg?”

“Like a bitch.” She smiled, and pulled him in for a kiss. His lips and tongue made her mouth water, and tensed the middle finger that had been floating lazily over her clit, setting it to a deliberate rubbing. She inhaled, and let a soft moan pass through her lips and into her sweetling’s mouth as she breathed out.

 _Don't make it too easy,_ Irri warned herself. It was more for her sake than Jon’s; a reminder that the power she’d feel from making him wait would be far more pleasurable than diddling herself in the bathtub. “Not yet,” she told him firmly, as she broke the kiss. “Wash my hair.”

The _Khaleesi_ closed her eyes and let her boy lather his hands up and rub her scalp. Years of serving her had taught him precisely how she liked it, but she sensed that her teasing had made him forget himself. His fingers were tight; their movement impatient. _Correct him before it turns to insolence._ “Calm yourself, sweetling. Slow and gentle.” A puff of frustration escaped his body, like steam from a pot just after the top comes off. But it was over in an instant, and he remembered his place and relaxed his fingers. “Better.”

 _You're right,_ she affirmed to herself, _this is every bit as good as playing with your clit._ But who was to say she couldn't do both? _No one._ No one told her anything of the sort. _Not anymore._ So she stuck one foot up on the rim of the tub, and exercised her rightful prerogative.

It was plain what she was doing, and that was precisely what she intended. She purred softly to herself, and pushed everything from her mind but the warmth of the water and the pleasure from the fingertips, above and below. But there was a ripple in it. _His fingers are pressing harder again._ He was a fool if he thought she’d give him what he wanted if he failed to contain himself. _He can't control it,_ she knew. _But I can, and I will._

She swatted a hand out of the water behind her and flicked a few drops over her shoulder, into her sweetling’s face. It wasn't much, but it served its purpose. “Don't make me give the same command twice.”

He slowed down accordingly. “I'm sorry, _Khaleesi._ ”

“ _Shhhh!_ ” That was rude of her, but Irri couldn't help it. She was too busy enjoying herself to listen to her handmaiden’s blathering. All she could abide was silence, patience, and precision; the strictest obedience to her every word that the most powerful and beloved man alive could muster. _Beloved by me, more than all the rest together._

The bliss of it all went right to her cunt, which insisted ever more strongly that she abandon all shame and subtlety. Waves formed in the tub as her pleasure troubled the water. Her back arched, her moans grew louder, and every inch of her body felt every sensation more keenly. The more she lost herself in it, the hungrier she grew. _Why are you doing this on your own?_ A moment ago, she knew precisely why. _To torture the royal slut._ But that no longer sufficed. _There are more sluts to torture, and worse ways to torture them_.

Irri opened her eyes and snapped her neck back again. “Summon my Hand.” Jon looked like a puppy she'd just kicked. _Come, now, do you truly think that washing my hair will be the best part of your day? Your_ Khaleesi _takes care of her pets._ She gave him an impatient look in response. “Some time today would be nice, sweetling.”

He shook himself off and grinned like the cheap whore he was, as the possibilities finally dawned on him. “Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” He threw on a towel and hurried outside to pass the command to Qezza.

Irri waved Jon over when he returned. Her hands were both above water, though her cunt was furious about it. “Rinse me, and dry me off.”

They had just finished when Missandei entered. Irri spotted the lust on her face, and evil thoughts flooded her mind. The tyrant inside her was an instant away from unleashing itself, whether anyone in the room was ready for it or not. But Jon ruined it, just when she was about to kick him to his knees. “What of the pickled vegetables, my lady?” _Still with the vegetables?_

Missandei did her best to respond dutifully, on the slim chance that she’d truly been summoned to talk about vegetables. “There are not enough pickled vegetables, Your Grace.”

“Well, what did you do about it?” _She should store some up your ass._

“I told them to pickle more vegetables.” _The histories will forever celebrate that stroke of brilliance._ Missandei smirked, her attempts to keep a straight face failing spectacularly.

Jon paused and blushed, finally realizing his own ridiculousness. “I’m sorry, my lady, I just--winter--”

Irri slapped him across the face, just hard enough to remind him she could slap much harder if called for. “Winter is coming. We know.” She wanted to strangle whomever first uttered those words. “And we will make certain the Realm is prepared, I swear it.” She grabbed his jaw and stared him down hard. “I love you more than life itself, but if you utter the word ‘vegetable’ again before I _say_ I'm done with you, I will cage your cock for a fortnight.”

The response was appropriately swift. “Thank you, _Khaleesi._ ”

After one last glare of loving malice, Irri turned to her Hand and smiled, half apologizing, and half inviting her to join the festivities.

“How may I serve, _Khaleesi?_ ” Missandei asked, blushing.

Irri took her by the hand and led her toward the bed, tugging just enough to show her the exact pace that pleased her. “We've been playing a game, my dear.” She grinned and began unlacing the girl’s dress, quick and effortless as only a handmaiden could. Irri did not bother asking permission, as they both knew she was above wasting her breath on such trifles. “It's called ‘make the slut wait his fucking turn.’ Would you care to join us?”

“I'd love that, _Khaleesi._ ” As soon as she was free of her dress, Missandei’s hand wandered a bit too close to her cunt for Irri's liking. It may have been innocent, but it was a movement without her leave, and Irri would abide no such presumptions from sluts like her.

One slap went to the errant hand; another to her face. “ _Nuh-uh-uh!_ ” She grabbed the girl's face as she had done with Jon, and pinned it in place with her eyes. Her other hand cupped Missandei’s sweet mound, her middle finger making its way between the girl’s lips and finding her cunt already growing wet. “Is this yours to touch?!” Missandei shook her head, scared but plainly loving it. Irri’s finger roamed its property. “Whose is it?!”

“Yours, _Khaleesi,_ ” she answered with due deference, her eyes filled with shame for forgetting herself. “Yours alone.” _Mmmm._

“Good girl,” Irri smiled and stroked Missandei’s cheek, sliding two fingers into the girl’s cunt with her other hand, and teasing out a soft gasp. “ _Never_ walk in this room again without remembering that. It ruins the game to make two sluts wait their turn. Do you want to ruin your _Khaleesi_ ’s game?”

“No, _Khaleesi._ ” She looked truly afraid. Irri wanted to seal their lips together and suck that fear right into her mouth. _And hold it there. Drown my tongue in that taste until my cunt can't bear it anymore._

“See that you don't.” She pulled away, snapped her fingers in Jon’s general direction and waved him over, but kept her eyes on Missandei the whole time. “Be a good sweetling and help me tie this boy down.”

That was the first time she'd asked Missandei to do any such thing. They had not played much since Winterfell; never on the march south, as they could not risk the scandal, and only a handful of times since they'd returned, as Missandei had been eager to spend time with Grey Worm, and Irri would never begrudge her that. But the eunuch had returned to his post with the Royal Army, and they now only had to contend with the usual Red Keep gossip, which had half the Realm believing that everyone at court was fucking everyone else anyway. _She's ready._ Irri was certain of it.

Missandei looked surprised. Her face was concerned, with a gravity on it so unnecessary that it made Irri want to laugh. The girl’s eyes tried to do the same, but utterly failed to mask the fire her _Khaleesi_ had lit.

Irri smiled and cupped the girl's cheek. _‘I know precisely how you feel.’_ “He won't mind, my dear. You've seen it, all he does is get all red-faced and giddy, like a fool.” She guided Missandei’s eyes toward him, standing a few feet away, all red-faced and giddy like a fool. _Gods, you make it so easy._ She turned back. “See? Now go on, get the rope. Don't make me ask again, sweetling.” Irri hated repeating commands, but loved reminding her sluts how much she hated it.

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” Missandei’s perky little ass bounced its way to the drawer near their bed, which only made Irri madder than she already was.

“And fetch my cock!” _Then come back here, so I can fuck you in half._

Missandei returned with the requisite supplies, but looked nervous “Are you alright, my dear?” _You poor, sweet thing._ “Is it Kraznys?”

She nodded wordlessly.

“Are _you_ Kraznys?”

She shook her head.

“Does he look like a child bedslave?”

“No, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Precisely. So don't be Kraznys, and let him be a man grown. I will help you, I promise. Do what comes to you by nature.” She turned to Jon, snapped her fingers, pointed at the ground, and jerked her thumb back toward the bed. “You too, boy.”

Jon grew a whorish grin that came to him by nature. “Gladly, _Khaleesi._ ” He dropped his towel and jogged to the bed like a knight entering the field at a melee, then crawled up and laid on his back with his arms and legs spread wide, happy as a pig in mud.

The Hand cracked a smile again.

“See?! Now grab his fucking wrists.” Irri showed her how to properly tie a man to a bed. Tight, but not so tight that it hurt to writhe around, in a knot that was hard to loosen but easily untied.

Missandei seemed more comfortable when they finished, though still a bit lost. “What now, _Khaleesi?_ ”

Irri smiled ear to ear. “We play the game, and make the slut wait his fucking turn.”

“How do--” Before Missandei could finish the question, Irri grabbed her wrist and flung her onto the side of the mattress, laying her on her stomach, her head resting on Jon’s stomach. She let out a startled gasp. _Good girl. Always fear what I might do next._

Irri grabbed her cock and dipped it into Jon’s mouth to get it good and wet as she positioned herself behind Missandei. She could feel him sucking, but pushed it in and out because it was fun to hear him gag anyway. _Not as easy after so many years, but still quite entertaining._ But her attention was on her other hand, teasing Missandei's cunt from behind, readying it for her, showing the girl just how easily she could break her down to nothing; yet another reason to fear and crave and worship her. Jon coughed when Irri finally pulled it all the way out, but slid seamlessly into a soft, intoxicated growl. Irri found herself making much the same sound.

She donned her cock and put her hands on Missandei’s hips. “Show me what’s mine, sweetling.”

Wordlessly, Missandei tilted her ass forward and lifted her cunt into the air, presenting herself like a bitch in heat, offering her body to the leader of her pack. _The Dothraki way._ She'd heard it called other things, but that was the first name she learned for it, from the men standing behind her while she kicked and screamed and hopelessly clawed at the dirt. _I rule them all, now._ That still terrified her sometimes, but she would die before she gave it up. _It's my way._

The milk men called it proof that her people were savages, though they all did it themselves. _The ones with any sense, at least._ There was a beauty to it; an utter lack of pretense that the urge came from some all-consuming love, so powerful that the only way to express it was to gaze into each other's eyes and flop around like a stranded fish on the deck of a boat. _Love has its place, but not everywhere._ The Dothraki way was about power. Power flowing from one being to another, because that’s where it belonged. The subjugation of the weak, so thoroughly broken that they’d been stripped of the right to deny what they were. It was nature taking its course, spreading the strongest seed into the most fertile cunts, willingly or not.

That part was merely a game for her, of course, but something in Irri’s mind had warped from the moment she first played it, and would never go back to what it was. Part of her insisted that if she willed it hard enough, she could turn every living body she came across into nothing more than a vessel, to use and discard, to drain of everything and make herself immortal. It would never be part of her body, but it would always be part of her mind, and her mind was far more dangerous.

When she wore it, everyone else in the world became equals, though none were equal to her. The women she played with, the man who loved her, the others who raped her, the woman who did both, and the man who took her away--they were all nothing. She was everything. And one by one, she would fuck them into the dust and prove it.

Sometimes, the urge was so strong it disturbed her. She would often think about it when she touched herself, and feel shame when she finished. _That's madness_ , she would tell herself. But as she held herself outside Missandei's soaked, twitching cunt, and the whimpering, quivering mess her body had become, none of that mattered. _You’re right, it’s the height of madness,_ the twisted part of her would agree. _But what of it? Fuck that whore until it's the only truth she knows._

But whores must beg to learn that truth, and true begging came only from pain, of the sort only she could inflict. She cocked her arm back and smacked Missandei in the fleshiest part of her ass. The scream made her mouth water. “ _Who owns this?!_ ” She demanded, as she teased pressed the tip of her cock against her.

“You do, _Khaleesi!_ ” She was breathing as if she had just run a mile. Jon moaned something that Irri couldn’t make out. _That’s alright. You don’t matter until I say you do._ “I’m yours, _Khaleesi_ , I’m all yours, please, please, it’s been so long, please, _Khaleesi, FUCK me!_ ”

Another time, that might have earned Missandei a relentless teasing and a bright red ass, but Irri could feel the stallion inside her, demanding she set it free, to trample and rape and steal from the weak. She pushed forward and watched herself fill that needy little cunt. Missandei let out the sort of moan that a woman let out when she’d forgotten how good that felt; when she thought she was ready, but her body realized far too late that it wasn't. A loud, deep grunt of surrender as Irri pushed, pulled back, and _pushed_ again, harder, melting and deflating her, reducing her to nothing but a tight, fresh hole to ravage.

She could have stood perfectly still and let Missandei grind against her like some rabid beast in a fit of madness. _Perhaps I'll_ _nail this cock to the wall and watch her do that._ But there was no fun in that, so Irri squeezed her ass cheeks tight and began to thrust with merciless rhythm. As their bodies fell into sync, Irri grabbed Missandei’s arms, and yanked them behind her. Missandei gasped and twisted, but her ass and hips and their wanton grinding never broke their pace. _You can't hide what you are_. She pinned the girl’s wrists together near the small of her back, and held onto her waist with the other, pulling that filthy cunt against her and ramming herself inside, like she were trying to fit into a leather glove that had shrunk and grown too tight.

Missandei made a sound much like what Irri had made when she stepped into the bath earlier. The sound one makes when their body gives out against a feeling too all-present and powerful to ignore, and blocks out everything else; when the mind frees itself from the needless trouble of being a person.

Irri released her left wrist, sending Missandei’s arm, swinging blindly toward Jon’s face. “Cover his mouth!” She commanded. Jon looked at her, eyes wide. _Did you think I would let you lie there and take a nap?!_ Missandei’s hand groped blindly around Jon’s face as he shook back and forth to dodge a finger in his eyes. _Yes, poke him, slut. Make him flinch_. Sadly, Irri had no such luck, but Missandei eventually found his mouth and pressed her palm against it, sealing it off.

It was a beautiful sight, but Missandei seemed to sense that she could do more to please her _Khaleesi_. She angled her hand so Jon’s nose was in the gap between her thumb and forefinger, and with her palm still flat on his mouth, pressed her fingers together, pinching his nostrils and cutting off any hope the boy had for keeping his right to breathe her air.

 _It pleased her as much as me,_ she suspected, her jaw clenched and hips pounding away. _She’s freeing herself._ Irri had given no command; Missandei had simply taken the liberty. _See, my dear? See how good it feels? I’ll let him breathe when he needs it. Give in and trust me to care for him. Like you trust me to care for your cunt when I’m finished destroying it._

Jon gave her that precious look he gave when his body was telling him to be terrified, but his mind wanted him to stop being such a craven and obey. She blew him a kiss, which slipped into a depraved smile, which pierced Jon’s eyes and went straight down to his cock and made it twitch. That only made her grin all the more evil. _She can’t hide from me, and neither can you. Stop trying, or you’ll embarrass yourself._

Missandei's ass was slamming itself against her so hard and so desperately that Irri knew the girl had long ago given up on any effort to control it. Her cunt wanted what it wanted, and it only wanted more with every bit it got. _You'll never have enough of this,_ Irri grunted at her wordlessly, as flesh slapped madly against flesh. _You don't understand what I’ve done yet, do you? I've broken you, silly girl. I've ruined you for everyone else._ The moaning and panting blended together until it sounded like the girl was about to cry.

 _Yes._ But the louder it got, the harder it grew for Irri to resist the urge to taste that shattered cunt; to feel it sliding, mindlessly, all over her face. Jon was starting to squirm and heave as well, and she reluctantly supposed she should allow him to breathe. _Enough of this._ She pulled out and smacked Missandei’s ass once again. “Roll over!”

The poor slut had been fucked too far into oblivion to understand a command, so Irri grabbed her and did it herself. Her hand slid off of Jon’s face, and he gasped and gulped, duly grateful for every breath. Before Missandei could get too comfortable, Irri slapped her across the face, forced her jaw open, and slid a finger inside. She sucked, with no command needed. _As they all do, when they’re as broken and freshly fucked as her._

“You’re _mine._ I rule you. _All_ of you. _Always._ Do you understand me, _cunt?!_ ”

Missandei nodded in terror, and submission, and sincere agreement.

“Good girl.” She removed her finger, took off her cock and tossed it aside, and dropped to her knees. Missandei’s useless, quivering legs slid over her shoulders, her body propping itself up on the side of the mattress, using Jon’s body as some makeshift pillow; her mind too far gone to remember he wasn’t. The scent of her cunt made Irri’s mouth water; juices and sweat; fear and exhaustion. As she kissed slowly up the girl’s thigh, Jon said something that Irri was too ravenous and too focused on her prey to bother hearing.

“... _Khaleesi_...cunt...please...” _The usual bleating._

Before Irri could respond, Missandei took care of it for her. “Shut up!” Her hand flew back and landed in his face; not a slap, but more than rude enough to plug his cunt mouth. _Oh, yes, that was lovely._

But there was a cunt to devour, and devour it she did. The first few strokes of her tongue were gentle, but only so she could puzzle out what made her Hand the weakest. Once she found it, Irri foreclosed all hope for mercy, and raped with her tongue. There was no love to it, and no hint of submission or servitude; she made certain that was abundantly clear. Nor was it even a prize for being such a good whore. This was one more act of conquest. One more reminder of who controlled whose body, and how ruthless a tyrant she could be.

Missandei’s whole body seemed to spasm as Irri tasted her wetness and felt it melting into her mouth and onto her face and chin. She grabbed a fistful of Irri’s hair to pull her in closer. _If you think that gives you any sort of power, you still don’t understand what I’ve done to you._ But Irri simply _knew_ that her whore had no such notions. Her grip was less of a commanding tug, and far more a desperate, helpless grasp as her freedom slipped away. The meaning of pleasure had changed for her, and would forever be bound to her _Khaleesi_ ’s whim.

“Yes, yes, _please,_ yes…” The girl was so drained of her strength that she could barely keep her fist closed. _Do you know what this is, now? Do you see what I've made of you? You will never escape this. Bleed yourself of the will to try. Let yourself grow weaker. Let it all flow out through your cunt and into my mouth. Feel me grow stronger from it. Feel yourself surrender your fate to me. Taste that sweet terror as you wonder what that means._

Irri could feel Missandei's clit throbbing. _It won't be long now, little slut._ She sucked, trapping it, claiming it, forcing that weak, worthless clit to accept its pleasure on her terms alone. Missandei began to shake. Irri pushed herself up off her knees, but kept her face tight against her soaked, pulsing cunt. She pulled Missandei closer, until her elbows nearly slid off the mattress. The girl let out a terrified scream, just as the pleasure was beginning to overcome her, but Irri stopped her from sliding too far. _You're my chattel. I would never let you fall. Nothing will hurt you now but me._

The fear was more than enough to send Missandei over the edge. She threw her head back and screamed. Irri saw her hand flail and hit Jon in the face again, then grip his neck to keep herself in place. _That was not an accident,_ Irri suspected. _I’ve corrupted this girl._ She hadn’t touched it since the bath, but her cunt began to throb regardless.

When it was done, Irri guided her slut safely down until her feet touched the floor. She looked at Missandei, stunned and quivering, her body not quite certain how to support its own weight. _She could sleep all day._ But Irri had far too much lust and madness built up to allow any such thing.

She stood, cupped the girl's face, and kissed her deep on the lips. The short respite gave her just enough decency to be merciful, and keep the kiss soft until the girl regained her strength. But her cunt was drenched and lacked the same patience as the rest of her, and without intending it, she found herself grinding frantically against Missandei's thigh; painting it with her wetness. Irri kissed her harder, but broke it off after only a moment. Their foreheads touched, and her eyes locked Missandei's in place, as firmly as if she'd nailed them to a post.

The _Khaleesi_ snarled, but said no words. _Words are for people. I’m still the beast inside me, and she's still meat._ Missandei seemed to wonder what the next game would be. _We’re already playing it._ The slut opened her mouth as if to speak. _None of that foolishness._ Before she could get a word out, Irri slapped her, slid a finger between her lips again, and thrust against her thigh, to punish her for the mere thought of whatever she'd planned to say.

Missandei’s eyes closed; her whole mind and body consumed with the paramount task of sucking her master’s finger. Irri turned her head to Jon, and found his eyes locked on her, watching her drag her cunt against Missandei's leg, the fear in them from earlier long-since supplanted by pure hunger. His body twisted against the ropes. _He truly thinks I’ll stop and entertain him._ A scoff mixed in with her grunts, and she grinned, admiring how easily she put that beautiful, crushed look on his face.

She turned back to Missandei, pulled her finger out, and growled in a voice that was nothing like the soft, sweet serving girl she’d once been. “ _Look_ at me.” Missandei's eyes snapped open, expecting a command, but all she got was a hand on her throat. Those eyes of hers widened, and Irri felt her own eyes light up at yet another course in her feast of fear.

Irri finished like a man, grunting through her nose, her mouth too tightly clenched to breathe through. There were moans, but not the frenetic wailing of a woman defenseless against her own pleasure. She lost control of her body, but instead of flailing about mindlessly, or desperately pulling her lover deeper inside, each thrust was a beating and a threat of more to come, to purge the helpless bitch beneath of all doubt that she'd been claimed and taken, and that her body was no longer hers.

She released her grip on Missandei's leg and stood back, grinning and catching her breath. The slut was still afraid to speak, but Irri was happy to leave her like that for just a bit longer. She looked back over at Jon with his angrily furrowed brow, and that absurd, gorgeous pout on his face that made her want to rape it with her cunt until he had something to truly pout about.

 _Very well, then._ She hopped onto the bed and knelt between his writhing legs, but did not trouble herself to acknowledge him. “What do you think, my dear?” Still dazed and leaning against the bed, Missandei jumped and looked around, like a rock had just whizzed past her head. _Gods, that was beautiful._ “Have we made this slut wait his turn?”

“I--” Missandei hesitated. Irri gave her a reassuring look. _You can speak, sweetling. I don’t play tricks on my sluts. Not you, at least_. “Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

“I think so, too.” She smiled and gripped her husband’s balls good and tight with one hand, squeezing and kneading, ignoring the rest of him. “Though I confess, I do enjoy forcing him to endure tedious conversation. Shall we discuss matters of state? Summon the Grand Maester to teach us more about pickling vegetables?”

Missandei snickered. _Good. I haven't truly hurt her._ “Have him bring a book, and read it aloud.”

Irri let out a laughing snort, and turned to her royal husband. “Would you like that, sweetling?” She mocked. “Samwell Tarly, sitting right here on this bed, lecturing you about beets?”

Jon gave her a grumbling and petulant “No, _Khaleesi._ ”

She turned back to Missandei. “I don't like his tone. Hit him.”

To her credit, for a woman who was afraid to speak just moments earlier, Missandei turned and dealt her King a truly respectable slap to the face. _Harder than my first, but not enough._ No one’s first was ever enough.

“Oh, you can do better than that. Go on, _hit_ him!”

After the second time, Irri wondered if her Hand was truly the novice she claimed. The sound of skin hitting skin was almost as beautiful as Jon’s wincing yelp. _Whiny little shit, what did you expect?_ Suddenly, the notion of making him wait much longer seemed as torturous to her as to him, and she found herself teasing the shaft of his cock with her fingertips.

“Good girl, now correct him.”

“Address your _Khaleesi_ with respect!” She barked.

Jon nodded weakly. _Oh, yes, that was perfect._ Missandei was as red-faced and giddy as Jon had been when they'd first tied him down.

They smiled at each other like children with a new toy, as Irri felt her husband's cock growing in her hand. “I don't know why it’s so fun, it just... _is!_ ”

“Gods, that felt good,” Missandei sighed. She looked down at him, then back at her _Khaleesi_ , her face plastered with the most irresistible beg.

“Go on, do it again! He loves it, I promise!” The pulse in his cock from the impact served as ample proof, and Irri could feel herself stirring more urgently.

The next one was even harder; almost as hard as the one after that. Jon’s cock throbbed, but Irri had danced this dance before, and knew he was reaching his limit.

“That's enough, my dear. We mustn't be too cruel.” Irri straddled her boy. “And I _need_ this, or I’ll go mad.” She skipped any further torment, and took him into her cunt, gasping and closing her eyes. It was still raw, but she was too enraptured to care. _Yes. This is where you belong, boy. In me, and beneath me._ “Mount his face,” she commanded her Hand, while she still had the wits. “I want to watch while he pleasures you.”

As Irri’s hips found their rhythm, Missandei hopped on that pretty little mouth of his like a stolen horse. Irri watched her close her eyes, arch her back, and grind. She conjured up terrible things to do with those perfect tits, but with every thrust, Irri’s need to give the man beneath her a third child grow stronger. _He can't take my head if I'm carrying his child._ As much she tried to escape it, the thought had lodged itself in her mind and refused to go away, ever since that conversation with Daario. _How does he know? Does he truly know, or is it all in my mind? Does he care? Would he tell anyone? Why? What would he gain from throwing the Realm into chaos?_

But there was nothing she could do. He was too important to shoo away or execute, and hiring a catspaw got her into this mess in the first place. Her only choice was to hope he’d go away, and get herself with child so Jon would spare her life if he didn’t. _He’d make orphans of his children if he thought their mother a monster. He would never kill a babe in the womb._

She shook herself off. _Stop thinking. You’re ruining it. Shut up and fuck this boy._ “Do you like how that tastes, little slut?” Irri shouted, as she watched the pleasure on Missandei’s face.

If Jon responded, Irri neither heard nor saw. She looked at her Hand, confused. “Did he answer me?”

Missandei shrugged, breathless, almost annoyed she'd been asked. Irri had half a mind to correct that, but couldn’t bring herself to leave her husband’s cock.

“You'd truly abide such insolence?!” She addressed Missandei, but thrust her weight down on Jon. _Yes, we're talking about you._ Sweet and devoted as Jon was, part of him still liked to see what he could get away with. _Slapping him in the face was the first lesson. This is the second._

Missandei remembered herself. “No, _Khaleesi_.”

“Do something, then!”

She looked down at Jon’s nipples, then back up, for permission.

“ _Yes!_ ” She only then realized how mad his cock had driven her. “Fuck, yes, _do it!_ ”

Missandei pinched and twisted both at the same time. “ _Speak!_ ” Jon screamed and convulsed. Irri's cunt throbbed in approval. Something came out of the King’s mouth, and Missandei threw her head back and panted.

 _Who cares what he said?_  “Do that whenever he’s a rude little _shit!_ ” She slammed down on him again, then once more for emphasis. “Like he _knows_ he shouldn’t!”

Jon groaned into Missandei’s cunt, which sent her head back again. She smiled when she recovered, and fit a “Yes, _Khaleesi,_ ” between moans.

Irri dragged her nails down Jon’s stomach, which she'd made a point of keeping immaculate for all these years, for precisely this reason. “ _Slut!_ ” That got his attention. “I had that cunt before you, do you like that?!”

Missandei nodded to confirm he'd answered, then groaned and bucked roughly. _Yes, good little slut, YES! Make him wish he could lick my seed from it!_

Her cunt throbbed harder, and her hips responded accordingly. “Because I come first, don't I! I _own_ you! Sluts like you get my scraps, and thank me for it!” With every beat of her heart, Irri cared less about talking and more about fucking the seed out of her royal husband. But she refused to allow any distractions until her slut showed the proper gratitude. “So fucking _THANK_ me!”

Knowing precisely what she wanted, Jon gave her a profuse, blubbering declaration of love, devotion, gratitude, and fervent agreement with every horrible thing she'd ever said to him. She understood not a word of it, but had heard it all before. The pleasure made Missandei buckle, which made Jon’s cock start to pulse, which sapped Irri of all patience for anything but getting a child in her belly.

“Give it to me, you gorgeous little shit!” She gasped for breath, like she’d just nearly drowned. “It's _mine_ , anyway!” She rode him wildly as he filled her, screaming, every bit the savage woman she was. “I want it! I _want_ it, _so GIVE IT TO ME!!_ ” She was so loud it hurt her throat.

Irri was never one to try to reach her peak at precisely the same time as her lovers, but no effort was necessary. She gasped and heaved as her palms hit the mattress around Jon’s chest, her elbows nearly gave out as he shook and thrusted and pumped her full. When he finally stopped, but not a moment sooner, her cunt reluctantly freed him.

Missandei finished shortly after, and plopped down on the other side of Jon. The three of them lay silent, dazed, and sated.

“What now, my dear?” Irri finally asked her Hand.

Missandei seemed to consider a number of beautifully twisted possibilities that she was still too shy to say in polite company. _I just raped your leg, you're not in polite company._ “We serve at your pleasure, _Khaleesi._ ” _Always a good answer._

She turned to Jon, still tied up but grinning stupidly, ready for a nap.

He smirked. “Anything, as long as it doesn't involve Sam or vegetables.”

Irri chuckled and kissed him on the cheek, but Missandei's eyes lit up.

“ _Khaleesi…_ Do you remember what you told him earlier?”

 _I do now._ “Get the cage.”

Jon tugged against his ropes in silly, hopeless frustration. “You said--”

“She said she'd cage you for a fortnight if you said the word ‘vegetable’ before she said she was done with you,” Missandei explained as she retrieved the cage from the drawer, as properly as she would pronounce a sentence to a common criminal. “She made no mention of the context, and she most _certainly_ did not say she was done with you.”

They both beamed with evil glee as Missandei put the cage into Irri’s outstretched hand. “Certainly not.” _You are the best Hand this Realm has seen in centuries._

“Have I told you what a twisted cunt you are?” Jon asked, fidgeting.

“You have, my love.” Her Grace clicked the lock shut, and draped the key around her neck by its chain. “With the same blushing smile every time.”

Missandei dressed and left, turning back to Lady Missandei of Naath, and Irri let Jon turn back to King Jon the Untied, while she spent several hours as Irri the Unconscious; one of her favorite Irris.

She woke to a setting sun and the smell of food. Rich, oily, flavorless food. Sometimes Irri would insist that at least a few courses at feasts have some spice in them, but this one would be full of Northmen, and gods forbid Northmen eat anything new. _Lady Sansa is sailing for White Harbor. She'll be home in a week. She can’t wait a week for mutton?_ Irri could be on the verge of starvation, and would still gladly wait a week for mutton.

She sat between Jon and Missandei at the dais, with the same people they always sat with, making the same pleasantries, and listening to the same toasts that Northmen loved so much. _Blather blather blather Ned Stark. Blather blather blather winter. Blather blather blather honor._ Lady Mormont thanked the Queen for promising men to relieve the Northmen, which earned her sincere applause, though not as raucous as when she downed a horn of ale in four gulps _._

Tyrion’s toast, however, was different. Most things about Tyrion were different, but this was different in its difference--sober and charming. Most Northmen would still prefer him dead, and he knew it, and his toasts always seemed to reflect that, but there was a courage to it, that demanded they shut up and listen.

“The capital has not been the same since Lady Sansa left. It’s a bit charred, and it’s down to just one odious Lannister, but that’s not all. Lady Sansa was kept here against her will. She was married to a whoring sot like me, which is bad enough, even if it weren’t forced. She was beaten, and threatened with worse. She watched her father's head leave his neck before her eyes. She watched a whole city celebrate her brother’s death from a treacherous crime. She was a _cyvasse_ piece; a hostage; a terrified child who just wanted to go home.”

Irri noticed Sansa’s lip quiver.

"But she woke up every day, got dressed, and took it. She kept her dignity, even when she was stripped of everything else. She survived the wrath and machinations of two of the worst human beings to ever sit the Iron Throne. She led the ladies of court through a siege, when my sister was getting drunk enough to poison her youngest child. She was a _Stark_ through all of it. She was scared, and furious, and miserable, but above all, she was _good_. Sometimes I wondered if she was the one good person in this city. King’s Landing has seen much and more since she left. It's seen greatness come and go. But it's one thing to be great. One or two truly great people can last the world a thousand years. It’s an entirely different thing to be _good_. We need more of those. Far more. And Lady Stark is both. She’s harmed no one who didn’t deserve it, and she's spared some of us who did, because in the end, all she wanted was peace in the Realm. Our silver-haired friend may have stolen His Grace from the North. And I'll concede he may be a tad better with a sword. But the Lady of Winterfell is just every bit as fine a person as him, and just as good at most everything else.”

“Better!” Jon clapped and interjected, smiling and setting off cheers.

Tyrion waited for the crowd to settle. “This is not the first time you’ve been back to the capital, Lady Stark. But it's the first time you've stayed this long. Please don’t stay away so long again, and please don't make your visits so short. I envy the people you rule, and this mound of shit we call a city misses you dearly.” He nodded and drank.

“He wants to fuck her,” Edd proclaimed, as if he were the only one to notice.

 _And he's off to a good start._ It was a powerful speech, and even Irri felt guilty for thinking her such a pompous bore. Lady Sansa blushed, and seemed at a genuine loss for words. Her smile, which normally gave away nothing, gave away everything. _She’s smitten._

“I hope she knows where it’s been,” Missandei replied.

“I don’t think _he_ knows where it’s been.”

Tyrion kept Sansa for himself nearly all night. Whenever someone came to speak to her, she made her pleasantries and turned right back to the dwarf, who was as charming as Irri had ever seen him.

“Bloody hell, he’s gonna do it,” Edd said, when he spotted hands on legs. He reached across Irri and tapped Jon on the arm. “Are you seeing this?”

Jon turned and seemed to notice it for the first time. He gave Edd a strange look, then caught Sansa’s eyes and gave her the same. Lady Stark smirked and shrugged, but seemed happy, so Jon tipped his head and let her be.

“It’s sweet, in a way,” Irri told him.

“Aye, he’s got a certain charm to him. He’s a sot, but he won’t harm her, he’s a good man.”

Irri raised an eyebrow. “Good enough to drape Winterfell in lion banners?”

Jon paused, and looked like he'd just let out a fart that was louder than he thought it would be. “Good enough for her last night here.”

Samwell approached from behind the dais, put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. _The one not next to me,_ Irri could not help but note. Jon looked concerned, and stood.

“What is it, my love?”

“Nothing. Stay here.” He motioned for everyone to continue feasting, and hurried off the dais and out the door. _Is it the children?_ It couldn't be. If the children were sick or in danger, he'd tell her. _Better be good, if he's leaving me alone to entertain this lot._

Two courses came and went, with no sign of Jon. Irri was about to begin the hour-long process of telling the crowd to bugger off, when two Northern soldiers appeared behind her.

“Come with us, Your Grace.” Their tone was ominous.

 _Is this it?_ “Where's my husband?”

“In the Small Council chamber. He told us to summon you at once.” _This is it._ _I suppose it was inevitable._ She felt oddly liberated. “He told us not to pull you from the dais unless we had to.”

“There's no need.” She stood. “I'll come.”

One of the soldier tapped Missandei as well. “You too, my lady.”

They entered the Council chamber to find Jon at the head of the table. His face was stone, but his eyes were pained. The soldiers pulled two chairs well away from the table and turned them to face the King.

“A raven arrived from Saltpans,” Jon began, quickly and uncomfortably. “Daario Naharis wants all the tax revenue from the port, in perpetuity.” Irri could feel herself growing weak. “He wants the same for Maidenpool, Gulltown, Harroway’s Town, and White Harbor. _White Harbor_.”

Irri tried to explain. “She--”

But Jon was having none of it. “When Sam told me, I laughed at him. ‘He’s got twenty men,’ I said. 'We could clear them out in half an hour.’ But Sam told me I _can’t_ do that. Because it's not that simple. Because if I tried, the Magister would send ravens with a message that would lose me the North, and the Iron Islands, and make half the rest of the Realm side with the zealots. I think you know what the message is.”

 _Not precisely, but I know what it leaves out._ She thought about explaining the truth. _Not with strangers in the room_. “I’d like to speak to His Grace alone,” she demanded, her voice shaking. Sam shook his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” Jon replied. “It would look like we conspired, then it’s _both_ of our heads, _and_ our children's. You’re their mother, and you’ve always been kind to me, so I won’t put you in a cell. You’ll spend tonight in the Tower of the Hand, and _stay_ there, confined to your chambers, until we conduct an inquest and a proper trial.”

 _‘You’ve always been kind to me,’_ she repeated to herself. “When the Dothraki hear of this, they’ll--”

“Aye, I know! Quite a predicament you’ve put me in, isn’t it?!”

That stung. _I never meant to involve you in this._  All these years, and she still couldn’t escape punishment for the crime of being a victim. “And if I’m found guilty?”

He sighed. “Then I’ll have to pass a sentence.”

Irri sat silently for a moment. “I don’t know what this message says, but I did not--”

Missandei reached over and put a hand over hers. “Your Grace, you should not speak of it now. Give yourself time to recall everything that happened. If you misremember even the smallest detail and say something different at the trial, they'll say you were lying.”

Jon grudgingly allowed her to heed that advice. “Confine my wife and Lady Missandei to the tower,” he commanded his men. “Keep them comfortable, but allow them no visitors without my leave.”

The soldiers grabbed her arms before she could make sense of his words. She looked over at Missandei, also restrained. He rose before they could lead her to the door.

Jon rose. “Wait.” He stood before her, eyed her up and down, and sighed. Irri knew he had much more to say, but he said none of it. He lifted the key from around her neck, and for the first time that night, looked at her with nothing but sincere anger. “Take her, before I do something stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Magister Cuntface, we’re very upset. We didn’t get the love that every child oughtta get....


	6. Jon III

Jon paced around the Small Council chamber, tired and alone. He paced everywhere of late, and when he wasn’t pacing, he sat and fidgeted and bounced his knee, or tossed and turned in his bed. _May as well have left the cage on._ He’d put the Northmen who served as his usual guards on leave, preferring Unsullied, who were less prone to gossip about what an utter mess he was.

It was before dawn, well before the rest of the Small Council normally met. Jon had the eunuchs bar the doors to all but the three advisors he trusted to speak the truth bluntly and keep his confidence. Edd and Sam entered first and sat immediately, knowing Jon had no patience for formalities. Tyrion waddled in behind him, bleary eyed and exhausted.

Jon held onto a chair, but refused to sit. “Well? What’s our plan?”

Tyrion braced for Jon’s response. “We’ll announce it first.”

“ _We’ll_ announce it,” Jon repeated, too tired to ask if the dwarf was mad. “First.”

“Daario means to send ravens with news of your wife’s crimes to every lord in Westeros. Unless he wrote a hundred scrolls himself, _someone_ already knows, so word will get out no matter what we do. If we announce it first, we can’t be accused of hiding it, we can control our own response, and without this secret to hang over us, he’s got no bargaining power.”

“That’s a bad plan,” Jon replied.

“Aye, it is,” Edd agreed. “What’s your plan?”

Jon exhaled, acknowledging what the rest of the room knew. “And what of my wife? And her Hand?” To buy themselves time, they’d moved Irri and Missandei to rooms near Sam’s chambers in the rookery, and told the Realm they’d simply taken ill. Jon hadn’t seen his wife in the two days since, and alternated between missing her terribly and wanting to strangle her. “They can’t be ‘ill’ forever.”

“We’ll give them a trial,” Tyrion explained. “Quick and fair.”

Jon almost uttered the word “good,” but stopped himself and simply nodded. _Nothing about this is good._ Near the door was a painted marble bust of his late wife. Nothing could do justice to her terrible beauty, but it captured her likeness better than most. _Do I even remember her likeness?_  He closed his eyes and tried to picture her, but all he saw was the bust, laying on its side in a gutter, blood pooling around the base. _You did this!_ He wanted to shout at the violet-eyed stone. _I hope that oarsman fucked you well._

“Jon.” He snapped his eyes open to a concerned look on the Grand Maester’s face. “Jon, sit. Please.” The King sighed petulantly and collapsed into his chair. “We’ll find a Dothraki judge for the panel,” Sam continued, “and make certain he votes to convict.” _Ah, a fair trial._ “The verdict’s more credible if--”

 _Will one of you acknowledge she’s the mother of my children?_ “Brilliant! We’ll choose the verdict before it starts, so it’s more credible.” The sarcasm was plain. “Then what? Take her head off for the city’s entertainment?” _Maybe she deserves that._ Better men had lost their heads for lesser crimes that they didn’t even commit. _She demanded I trust her, but she lied all along. She’s throwing the Realm into chaos. Me most of all._

“Your Grace,” Tyrion cut in, “if you want to keep your crown--”

“ _Fuck_ my crown!” He wanted to hurl it into Blackwater Bay.

“Very well, fuck your crown,” Tyrion shot back. “If you want to keep your _head--_ ”

“Fuck my head, too! Let them take it. Then maybe I can rest.”

“Jon, don’t say things like that!” Sam pleaded.

Tyrion tried again. “If you won’t do it for yourself, Your Grace, do it for the common people. Do what you must to save them from--”

 _Bugger the common people._ “I saved them from the dead, now I have to save them from themselves? From their made-up gods? When does it end, my lord? How much saving must the common people need before they no longer deserve it?” _‘You’ll be fighting their battles forever, Lord Snow.’_ “Bugger it, let her die. I’ll renounce my crown and go back to the Wall, and you lot can run this shit country until my son comes of age. I’ve done more for--”

Edd slapped the table. “Will you shut the _fuck_ up?!” The room fell into a nervous silence. “I love you, but you whinge worse than me sometimes. ‘Oh, I was raised by a man who lied to me so I wouldn't get murdered. Oh, I got murdered but came back anyway. Oh, I fuck women who piss off everyone else.’ Just _listen_.”

“Speak, then!”

“You don’t have to kill her,” Edd continued. “Annul the marriage, let them pass the sentence, then grant her clemency at the execution and send her to live on Dragonstone. Give her whatever comfort she wants, but no visitors. Only women and eunuchs, so she won’t have any bastards. Maybe you can visit her after a few years.”

 _Better than execution, I suppose._ “And the children?”

“Name them your heirs, and keep them here,” Tyrion answered. “When they come of age, we’ll arrange for them to miraculously convert to the Faith. That should put this all to rest.” _You can tell Vazzi that._

Jon closed his eyes, wishing he were alone. “Let me think on it. Go, before anyone wakes up and sees you here early.”

As the sun rose, Jon sat and thought, but felt no better by the time the meeting started. Varys entered first, surprised to find the King already in his seat. “Your Grace,” he bowed.

“My lord,” Jon replied flatly.

“Your Grace, are you quite alright?”

 _Not in the least._ “I miss my wife, Lord Varys. That’s all.” By some miracle, Sam had managed to conceal Daario’s raven from the little birds, but the eunuch had been playing this game too long not to sense something amiss.

“I pray she and Lady Missandei are not gravely ill.”

 _All you pray is that I let slip what truly happened._ “Sam says they’ll recover.”

“Is she--”

“Sam says they’ll recover!” He snapped back. Varys simply nodded in deference, and Jon resumed his blank, silent stare.

Tyrion entered next, feigned surprise at Jon’s presence, and poured some wine as he sat. _He does this every morning,_ Jon wagered. _How much does the spider pry out of him when they’re alone?_ He snatched the cup from Tyrion’s hand, and gulped it down himself, praying the wine would bring him some relief, but it only exhausted him further.

The rest trickled in, and the meeting began. More vegetables had come in from the Reach, and pickling was underway. The Royal Army so far had seen only minor skirmishes in the Riverlands. A library was near completion in Flea Bottom; another on Pyke, and another in Haystack Hall. _I can take credit for the bloody vegetables,_ Jon realized. _The rest is her doing._

He wanted to renounce his titles on her behalf, and go back to the Wall. _She’s changed this Realm forever, yet I’ve locked her up over two sailors? Who’s the traitor here? Does any of this matter to the commoners? They’ve got coin and food and a future for the first time in history. Will they truly throw that away over a bit of royal madness?_

The Council droned on, but Jon was trapped in his own mind. _No,_ he finally decided, _she must go. None of this is possible without peace and order, and if she escapes punishment, we’ll lose that forever._  That made him angry.

 _She'd leave our children with chaos,_ Jon argued to himself. _They’re babes. They should not be burdened with this._ Jon had no doubt that Irri meant only the best for the Realm. _But she can no longer see it through. She must know that. She loves her people. She’ll understand._ That was absurd, but he preferred to take comfort in the lie.

The talk turned to various favors that had been asked of the Crown. Legitimize some lordling’s cousin’s bastard so he can marry some other lordling’s third daughter, so perhaps if he were lucky, a dozen of his kin would die and he'd get a windmill. Jon could take no more. “Fine. Do it.” He stood. “I need to see my wife. Let Lord Tyrion decide this nonsense, then go do whatever you do all day.”

He left it at that, and marched toward her chambers. _Don't let her talk too much,_ he reminded himself. _Say what you must, and get out of there._

Sam caught up with him. “Jon, you can't be alone with her, you need a witness!”

Jon kept his eyes forward and walked faster. “You're my closest friend, Sam. You're a shit witness.”

Sam hesitated. “I also need to use the privy. Quite badly.”

 _Thank you for that._ “I hope _you_ don't need a witness.”

“Then I suppose you’d be a shit witness too,” Sam grinned in an attempt at levity.

Jon kept silent for the rest of the walk. He reached Sam’s chamber and exhaled deeply as he pushed door open, right into the trap that Irri's eyes had laid. She sat cross legged on a cot, staring straight at the door. _She’s been like that for two straight days._ “My love,” he greeted her softly, standing near the door as Sam barged toward the privy.

She responded only with furious silence.

 _Just get on with it._ “Are you comfortable?”

Irri scoffed. “Where are my children?”

 _They’re mine, too._ Though this was not the time to press her on semantics. “They're here, in the castle.” He paused, watching the pain run roughshod over her face. “They miss their mother.”

“Best fix that, then.” Her voice dripped with biting contempt, but he could tell she was close to tears.

Jon sighed. “Very well. They can spend the night here. Sam!” He shouted toward the privy. “Get a room ready for the children!”

Sam acknowledged him with a muffled grunt. Irri's face demanded an apology for subjecting her to that.

“I'm sorry, my love.” _No more apologies._

Irri rolled her eyes and looked out the window. “So, what now?”

“They're going to give you and Missandei a trial,” Jon replied. She grinned out the window, as if it were all some jape. _Stop. You should be thankful for that._ “You’ll be charged with murder, treason, and frustrating the Crown’s justice. Daario Naharis found a Lyseni pirate who claims that after Daenerys’s funeral, Lady Missandei paid him to attack the _Prince Rhaegar_ on the high seas, and murder the captain. He also found a sailor who was on the ship when Daenerys sailed to Dragonstone. He claims you and Dany used an oarsman for a night of debauchery and cut his tongue out to silence him. He says this was the man who assassinated her, and that you knew it, stopped his trial before the captain could testify.”

“Do you believe that?” There was less fear in Irri’s tone than he would have expected.

Jon spotted Sam emerge from the privy. “Everyone else will, so does it matter?” His answer disturbed him.

She crossed her arms. “Care to hear the rest of it?”

“Remember Your Grace,” Sam interrupted her, “your Hand counseled you--”

“To stay silent until my farce of a trial, yes.”

“There will be a Dothraki judge,” Sam countered weakly.

“Oh, I suppose that's meant to comfort me? You would never let a Dothraki judge me unless you knew he'd find me guilty. If he votes to acquit me and I’m freed, the rebels will call it proof that the foreign horde rules Westeros. If he votes to acquit and I lose anyway, Flea Bottom will burn to the ground, and the rest of the city with it. So Lord Tyrion will bribe or blackmail someone into convicting me regardless of the truth. Do you think I've learned nothing?”

“I think you've learned enough to know that I’ve got no good choices now!” Jon fired back. “If Daario sends the ravens, the rebels will say they were right all along. The North will say they knew Dany was a whore, and that they never should have trusted me when I vouched for her. If I attack Saltpans, he’ll send the ravens anyway as soon as he sees my men. If I give in to his demands, he’ll only make more, until he’s got so many soldiers and so much money that we may as well fly a harpy from the Red Keep. I could execute you, but the Easterners will say I besmirched Daenerys and undid her legacy. Do you understand how thoroughly you’ve fucked me? And yourself, and our children?”

She sighed petulantly.

“How many times have you lectured me about how I don’t know what it’s like to be punished for someone else’s crimes?”

Irri stayed quiet.

“ _How many times?!_ Yet you laid next to me in bed every night, _knowing_ you did precisely that to an innocent man!”

“Bugger it, then.” Irri finally began to cry. “I'm ready to die. Gather the whole city and take my head now. Have men in the crowd sell meat on a stick. Make a grand show of it.”

Jon composed himself. “I won’t execute you.” _Stay firm._ “I'll set you aside, strip you of your crown, and send you to live out your days on Dragonstone. The children will visit twice a year, and hopefully, everyone else will forget you.”

“And you? Will _you_ forget me? Wed some Northerner? Father fair-skinned children to rebel against those abominations you made with me?”

Jon chose to ignore the last bit. “I don’t know yet.”

“Then why were you so eager to take that key off my neck? Did you bethrothe yourself to your right hand?”

Sam pretended not to hear that, though Jon had no doubt he took her meaning.

“I took the key off your neck because you’re mad if you think I’d let you cage my cock up while I decide what to do about your lies and treason!”

“Then why don’t you--” Irri leaned forward, giving him too nice a view down her blouse.

“Do _not_ try to seduce me out of this. Please. I know you're scared and desperate, but I want to remember you as a better person than that.”

Irri looked down, noticing her blouse for the first time. She sighed and pulled the blouse down further, to emphasize what a fool he'd just made of himself. “What I meant to say, before my _tits_ nearly frustrated the Crown’s justice again, was why don’t you shut your mouth and listen before you judge me!”

Jon folded his arms. “Go on, then.”

“I confess. It was a debauched night. Daenerys tied my hands behind my back--”

 _Aye, that sounds like her._ “We don’t need details, this isn’t--”

Irri put a finger in his face. “And forced the oarsman to rape me.” She let that hang there for a moment. “She made me lick her cunt while she watched. Then, while I lay sobbing, she fucked him with an Unsullied’s spear at his back, and threatened to have him murdered if he slowed down. When she was done, she held me in place while the man forced his cock in my mouth, and finished down my throat. Then she cut his tongue out. _That_ was the debauchery these men say I loved so much.”

 _A terrible story,_ Jon thought, unmoved. _What terrible story would I make up if I were her?_  “Dany had her moments, but that's not the woman I knew.”

Irri smiled contemptuously. “You knew the woman who feared you’d leave her and take half her continent with you. I never had the pleasure of meeting _that_ woman.”

He decided to let her continue. “Was this the day she razed Driftmark? Are you saying her blood got so hot that she couldn’t control herself?” Jon knew Daenerys had pushed Irri too far at times. She'd pushed Jon too far as well, but she always stopped before she truly hurt him. _But there was a monster inside her, no doubt._

“Oh, no,” Irri corrected him. “She controlled herself quite well. She controlled _everything_. She chose this man because he had fought for Euron, and no one would question a missing tongue. She chose him because he could neither read nor write, and hoped if he couldn’t speak, he'd take this to his grave. She claimed she regretted it later, but went about the next day as if nothing happened.”

Jon’s anger softened. “During that feast with Aegon, she spoke of a night she treated you too harshly. Was this the night?”

Irri shook her head. “She had me so twisted that I was still madly in love with her. The night she ‘treated me too harshly’ was when she nearly strangled me to death. Aegon learned about me, and tried to blackmail her with it. She pinned me down, raped me, accused me of treason and said all manner of terrible things, and nearly choked the life from me. I fought her off, but two or three more heartbeats and I would have died, I know it. Then you came to King’s Landing, and I poured your wine while you feasted with her and tried to get into her cunt.”

 _You’re a right little shit, aren’t you?_  “I was not--”

“Of course you were, my love. Not that it changed anything. She decided your fate the moment you left Winterfell. She would have made you her whore even if you'd said nothing all night.”

Jon turned to Sam, who nodded and started toward the door.

“Oh, no, he stays,” the Queen commanded. The tears had stopped, and the strength was returning to her voice. “We need a witness.” Her eyes followed Sam back to his spot, then returned to Jon. “Where were we?”

“Dany would have fucked me no matter what I said,” Jon repeated, awkward and ashamed.

“Ah, yes. And had you protested, she would have done it with a knife to your throat. You're fortunate you were so smitten.”

Jon challenged her. “You said she feared me.”

“You hadn’t bent the knee yet,” Irri reminded him. “The North wasn’t hers to lose. Yet you needed to feed your people, so your choice was to suffer her madness or let them starve. She knew that, and she knew _you_. And you’re a fool if you think she wouldn't do that.”

Jon sat silent. He could sense the truth in his wife's words, and it struck a mix of terror and disgust in him, quite unlike anything he'd felt before, born of the certainty of Dany's will for him. _Nothing should be so certain except death._ But after death came nothing. After Dany came more Dany. And more, and more, and more, until she decided she was done.

Irri folded her arms again. “Do you believe me?”

“...I can’t say I don’t.” He sat beside her and put a hand on her knee. “But--”

“Why didn’t I tell anyone? Think, my love. Do you think she would have let that go unpunished? Do you think anyone would have believed me? Even if some did, do you think the lords of Westeros would have called their banners for me? They’re barely willing to do that _now_.”

 _Here you go, with your stupid fucking honor again._ “I would have--”

“You would have _what_ , Jon? Taken her head? Gone back to Winterfell and declared independence? Do you think sending fifty thousand men to die will un-rape me?”

Jon sighed.

“They say that sometimes she was great, and sometimes she was mad. But she was both _._ All the time. Day in, day out. The woman didn’t know how to rest. There was always a new war to start, a new injustice to crush, a new cock-shaped thing to shove up your ass while you’re chained to the ceiling. But I owed her my life and my freedom. Who was I to object? Every time she unchained me, I fell that much deeper into her debt, no matter what terrible things she did to me.”

Jon stood wordlessly and paced again. “Trust me, I wish I could undo all of that. But this doesn't make things any easier, and it doesn’t change the fact that an innocent man died on your orders. You’ve done so much good, but if you stay here, the turmoil you’ll cause will undo all of it. If you love me, and our children, and the Realm as much as you say, then you _must_ go.” _That sounds even stupider when you say it aloud._

“So you, the man of honor, the Stark at heart, truly mean to exile the mother of your children after what I've told you?”

“I’m sorry, my love. I simply don’t know what else to do.” He turned to Sam. “I need sleep. Inform Lady Missandei of the charges against her as well. Offer to let her go back to Naath, and _beg_ her to accept it.”

Sam nodded. Jon gave his wife a sincere but unappreciated kiss on the forehead, and left.

He returned to his chambers and made the mistake of trying to sit alone with his thoughts. But it was all too much, and by midafternoon he could neither sleep nor sit still nor do anything useful, so he made the worse mistake of summoning Lord Tyrion.

Deep in his cups already, the dwarf strolled in and poured two cups of wine from Jon’s flagon. He slid one cup halfway toward Jon, then snatched it back. “You owe me for this morning,” he reminded Jon with a mocking disdain. He gulped down Jon’s cup, then slid the other halfway, then snatched that one back as well. “With interest.” He downed half of that cup, but allowed Jon the rest.

Once Jon’s debt was paid, Tyrion proved himself much more open-handed, and Jon was grateful for it. He recounted what Irri had told him, which Tyrion seemed to find unsurprising.

“You advised her since Meereen,” Jon reminded him. “You saw nothing?”

Tyrion laughed. “I wouldn’t say I ‘advised’ her. She was a Dragon, and she acted accordingly. All I did was aim her at the right people.” He paused. “And apparently, I failed.”

The discussion turned to Sansa and Ramsay, and an assurance that if Tyrion gave Sansa even the slightest trouble, Jon would switch his balls with his eyes. Tyrion found that equally unsurprising.

That led to a similar threat about trying to seize the North for House Lannister, which made Tyrion cackle, which led to speculation on how drunk Lyanna Mormont would have to get before Tyrion could beat her in a fight, which led to jokes about Tyrion’s long-gone acrobatic skills, which led Jon to set up his wives’ manacles and make several ill-advised dares, which led to a few hours lost to the ages, which led to Jon waking up with his face in the privy.

“It's alright, bastard,” said Tyrion, scratching the back of Jon’s head like a dog. He took a sudden interest in the word “bastard,” and repeated it in several different accents, giggling each time.

“Ishouldntahadthatmuchtodrink.” _That was both coherent and kingly._ He took a few deep breaths. “I've done fuck all today. Where’re the children?”

“They're with their mother tonight,” Tyrion replied. “Let them have their time with her. Don't--”

Jon stood, but nearly fell when he tried to walk, catching himself on the privy door jam.

“Don't do that.”

Jon leaned his head against the wall. “I'm an embarrassment.”

“It's not your finest moment, but as my father once said, if you can't get piss drunk before you rig your wife's murder trial, when can you?”

“He said that?”

“No. Let's get you to bed.”

Jon stumbled toward the bed, landing face-down across the width of the mattress.

“Not bad for a Stark,” Tyrion proclaimed, rolling Jon onto his back.

“I'm not fit to rule.”

“Stop it. You’re drunk, in your own chamber, with a man who has no right to cast aspersions on drunk rulers. Sleep. You'll be fine.”

His eyelids grew heavy, and the spinning room turned to darkness, then to the marble floor of the Throne Room. He was naked, and his hard cock ached from having been too hard for too long.

Daenerys was in her rightful seat, dressed as she’d been the first time he laid eyes on her; her collar tight around her neck. Her violet eyes had turned to the bright, cold blue he thought he’d vanquished from the world, but the rest of her was precisely as she looked when she lived. He stayed put.

Dany smiled. “Is it my eyes you fear?”

 _It was always your eyes I feared._ But he refused her the satisfaction of an answer. _She has no right to the pleasure of seeing me in fear._ “Am I dead?”

Her grin grew wicked. “You tell me, bastard. Is this what happened last time?”

“I saw nothing last time.”

Dany shrugged playfully. “Then perhaps you’re not.”

“That was before I met you.”

She giggled. “You're still terrible at flattery.”

 _Bugger this nonsense._ “I loved you, but you were a monster,” he barked.

“I was,” Dany freely admitted. Her glibness vexed him.

“You did terrible things.”

She nodded. “Madness, isn't it?”

“Your sweetling deserved better.”

“Much better.” Dany reached beside her and tossed him a dragonglass dagger. Jon watched it hit the floor and slide in front of his knees. He looked at it, then back up at her. She beckoned him closer. “Go on, do it.”

Dany chuckled as Jon rose, taking great pleasure in watching his cock bounce stupidly from side to side as he walked.

He stared coldly down at her when he reached the Throne, and held the dagger above her heart. But all he got back was a raise of her eyebrow.

“Don’t make me say things twice,” she warned.

He grunted and thrust the dagger into her, but all he got was a wince that blossomed into a smile. There was no change in her eyes. No scream. No bursting into a puddle of water. She grabbed his wrist, but made no effort to pull the dagger from her chest. Her skin was as warm and soft as it had ever been. As he stared into her eyes in confusion, her other hand clamped around his balls.

She tugged, and back to his knees he went. “This is where you’ve belonged, since the day you first put yourself there.”

Jon gawked at the dagger lodged deep in her chest. Blue blood seeped from the wound, but if Dany felt any pain, she gave no sign.

“I’m not yours anymore,” Jon insisted. “ _She’s_ not yours anymore. Not after what you did to her.”

That cut far deeper than the blade. “You’re right about her,” her face was contrite. “Please bring her back to me.”

“Why should I? That's madness!”

She crossed her legs and rolled her ankle, smirking as she caught his eyes following her boot. “Because _you_ , bastard, are still mine. Now and always.”

 _Don’t let her make a fool of you._ He shook himself off and stared back up into her eyes. “What makes you so sure?”

Dany grinned and pulled the dagger from her chest. Blue blood coated the blade and stained her tunic, but the fabric looked otherwise untouched. Jon felt his mouth open, as if something outside him had willed it. Her Grace laid the flat edge of the dagger against his tongue. “Suck.”

Jon wanted to pull away and knock the blade from her hand, but the taste stopped him. The willfulness was gone, and the rage, and fear, and confusion. All that remained in his mind was a flash of lust and a warm, peaceful gratitude. All he could do was close his eyes and suck, like a good boy. There was a strange sweetness to her blood, that made him feel more alive than he'd felt since the day he was born the second time. _‘Serve me.’_ The thought filled his mind. _‘Fight for me.’_

“This is why you’re mine, bastard,” Dany explained. “The red woman made you breathe again. I gave you life. Do you see the difference?” She pulled the blade from his mouth, snapping his eyes open. She was all he saw.

 _I see._ Jon nodded vacantly.

She uncrossed her legs, looked down at her breeches, and cocked her head impatiently to one side.

 _Yes, I’m sorry, Your Grace. Thank you, thank you, thank you._ He looked up at her as he unlaced her breeches, quickly and deftly, his eyes begging her mercy and approval.

Dany wiggled out of them as soon as they were loose enough. Her pale, perfect hips teased him mercilessly as she squirmed. She slid forward and draped her knees over his shoulders; though her breeches were still around her ankles.

 _That scent._ He knew it like a dog knew its master. The cunt that had once ruled him so tyrannically presented itself again. Jon inhaled as deeply as he could, as his body fell forward in surrender. _Honor can wait an hour._ His tongue teased itself between her lips and dragged slowly against her clit.

Her thighs wrapped themselves around his head, smooth and soft and powerful as that morning of her last day alive, when he woke to find his head trapped between them. _Please don’t leave me again._ His mouth pressed itself around her cunt, and the taste flooded his mouth, tinged with the same unnatural sweetness as her blood. _Take me with you._ She tugged him closer, the pain of her nails in his scalp sending a moan through his lips.

“ _This_ gave you life,” she panted and tugged harder. “Do you deny it?”

 _Only a fool would deny it_ , he answered, with a grunt and a shake of his head. She was neither his first nor his last, but paramount nonetheless. _What else would she accept?_

All his life he'd served some greater purpose, none of which he'd chosen, and all of which would have led to certain death if he failed. Daenerys was the exception. No matter what terrible things she did, she would save him in the end, as she always had. _Nothing is better than knowing you'll be saved._

“Faster, boy,” Dany commanded.

Jon obeyed, as his nature and hers both commanded. Her delicate little fingers ran through his hair; their tips on his scalp seizing his entire body for her own, enthralling it to her will. The power of her mere existence shot through to the core of his body, and spread itself inside him.

Dany gasped and arched her back. “Yes, bastard, more,” she whispered. “I need this.” She moaned and clenched his hair tighter in her fists. “You don’t understand, I _need_ it.”

 _Give it to her. That’s why you exist._ He buried his face deeper between her thighs, sealed his lips around her clit, and sucked. She purred, then groaned in relief as he dragged his tongue against it. His head bobbed seamlessly with her rolling hips, refusing to let her clit escape him. _Not again. Please, not again._

The rolling turned to bucking, and her sweet pleading gave way to the iron-handed demands that had brought the world to heel. _Yes, conquer me. Take what's yours._ His cock throbbed, aching worse than before, but Jon welcomed it.

“You will _never_ be free of me, sweet nephew.” She thrust her cunt against his chin and rubbed her scent into it, growling a low, breathless growl as she savored the texture of his short, scratchy beard.

Jon shook his head in agreement, no longer wanting it any other way. His body offered itself to its rightful Queen. His hands found their way under her tunic and crept up her soft, flat stomach. Her breath grew faster and deeper, filling him with pride that he was serving her well, and gratitude for the opportunity.

Dany’s clit tensed and twitched, as her panting grew heavier and her body shifted to make room for his hands. He found her tits and squeezed, teasing her nipples with his thumbs, feeling them harden.

“ _Yes._ ” She gasped and shuddered. “I’m part of you, bastard. I’m _in_ you.” She tugged his hair harder, her pleasure building to where she no longer troubled herself with his comfort. “Monster and all.”

 _'She was a Dragon, and she acted accordingly,'_  Tyrion had said. But that was in Jon's blood, just as much as hers.

Dany screamed as her pleasure enveloped them both. Her body tensed, arched, and twisted; her breath grew frantic. Her chest rose, fell, and rose again, like the sea before a storm. _She was born in a storm, and in death she’s become one._ And Jon was merely a vessel, rocking away at her whim. Praying to her, begging her to spare him, but girding himself to be shattered and swallowed up, because fighting her was pointless.

She threw herself back against the Throne, her screams so loud they echoed off the walls. Jon felt her body pulsing, her wetness flowing over his tongue, filling his mouth, like waves over the bow of a storm-tossed ship. _Sink into her. Drown in her._

For a moment, he was certain he would. She pressed both of her hands against the back of his head and locked her thighs unbreakably tight. She was in the throes of her peak, screaming at the top of her lungs and well past words, but Jon sensed an undeniable cruelty in the way she’d trapped him. _She’s mocking me for needing to breathe._

Just as that need grew overwhelming, she released him. He gasped, as Dany’s legs turned to dead weight against his back. Her grip on his hair loosened and her tugging turned into soft, loving strokes through his curls.

He gave her a few final strokes of his tongue, then nuzzled the side of his face against her thigh and looked up. His conscience seized on the moment of weakness. “I shouldn't have done that.”

“It’s not about what you should do.” Dany petted him like a puppy. “It’s about what you _will_ do. You’re my nephew. You’re the leader of our House. You _must_ set this to right, and you will.” She pulled her legs back and freed Jon’s head from the breeches around her ankles, then shooed him backward, stood, and laced herself up.

“I don’t understand.”

Dany smiled. “Some things never change, do they?” She tapped his balls with the tip of her boot. “Rise.”

Jon stood, his Queen admiring his hardness that ached more every minute. _Don't touch it._ He knew that much, but no more. As he puzzled at what to do with his hands, a manacle clapped around one wrist, then another. He looked at Dany’s hands, folded neatly in front of her. She looked up, shrugged, and gave him that grin of hers she got when she was ten steps ahead of him.

He must have scowled, as Dany rolled her eyes with mocking annoyance. “Yes, another righteous Stark boy, chained up in here for no good reason, at the mercy of a demon.” Her dead blue eyes were alight with twisted lust. “I’m aware of the resemblance.”

The manacles pulled his arms above his head, by whatever force had first bound him. “You're more like him than you let on,” his conscience warned them both.

“And you’re more like your own father.”

Like everyone else, Dany far more often compared him to his uncle. Jon looked at her askew, but she said nothing.

Dany watched, her hands still folded, as the chains pulled him higher, until his feet dangled just above the floor. _She enjoys being dead._ “With your beautiful black-eyed wife you abandon the moment it suits you.”

That caught him off guard. “This is entirely different,” Jon protested. “I did not--”

Dany locked his jaw open with her thumb and forefinger. “You did not ask my leave to _speak_ , let alone question me.” Her eyes quickly took back their rightful place as the most terrifying things in the room. “I’ve been far too kind to you. That ends now.”

Jon closed his eyes and braced for pain, but none came. He opened them, to find Dany on her knees in front of him. _This may be worse._ He closed his eyes again, but blindness was no refuge.

“Look at me,” Dany demanded. Her eyes were ready for him, as was her tongue. She licked up his shaft, brazenly, like a child with a sweet; a highborn child who'd stolen it from a commoner, because she could. “Do you think I'm doing this to seduce you?” Her tone carried a warning not to make a fool of himself.

“No, Your Grace.”

She slid her mouth over his cock and both hands over his ass, digging her nails in hard, pulling his whole body closer to her. He struggled, although different parts of him preferred to struggle in different directions. Her nails dug in even harder and scratched down his ass, as she took nearly all of him into her mouth. She did as she pleased with him, until he wondered if that was her only question.

Then she stopped, pushed him away, and inched back to let him swing helplessly. “Why, then?”

He hated saying it, but was too far gone to lie. “Because you can.”

She slapped his cock, playfully, but hard enough to hurt. “Good.” And back in her mouth it went.

Jon shuddered as she tortured him, her tongue as masterful as it had always been. She kept one hand on the base of his shaft, and the other spread over his ass cheeks, pushing him deeper into her mouth when it suited her, then letting him fall slowly away to tease only the head, like a cat with a doomed mouse. He threw his head back and groaned as the pleasure spread from his cock to his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes. His ass clenched, which only made her dig her nails in harder and suck with a ferocity that made his legs twitch like a man being hanged. His breath grew heavier as his attempts to flee grew ever more hopeless.

His despair only made Dany greedier. She slid the tip of her tongue up one side of his shaft, rolled it around the head, then brought it back down the other side. _She’s right. I’m hers, now and always._ The pleasure she gave was an act of mockery, which infuriated him, but all the rage he could muster stood no chance against the things this woman could do to his body.

Jon felt himself throb. _Give her what she wants, and she’ll give you the right to enjoy this._ “What would you--”

But all that got him was a squeeze of his cock between her teeth as punishment for speaking out of turn. As he thanked her silently for the pain and correction, she pulled one cheek away from the other and forced a finger between them, pressing it against his asshole, reducing him to the debased slut they both knew he was.

He moaned, loud and deep, as Dany’s mouth brought him closer by the instant. Just as the pleasure engulfed him and his cock began to pulse with a fierceness he could no longer control, she released him, and stood. _‘Later,’_ she had promised before she died. _Much later, it seems._

Dany locked his chin in place with one hand and dragged her nails down his chest with the other. “I’ve wronged her worse than you ever could, that’s true.” Her eyes stayed that evil blue, though her face showed something like remorse. But it was gone in an instant, as her hand moved from his chin to his throat. “But do you think that makes you right? Do you think truly think it’s just to punish her for my crimes?” She squeezed harder. “Do you think the law is so sacred that a King can’t overrule it? Do you think either of us would be who we are if that were true?” She slapped him. “Do you?!”

She was right. His wife’s only crimes were to do what she needed to survive, and to bury a secret that would have ignited the same revolt they faced now, but at the worst possible time. “No, Your Grace,” he admitted. “She deserves better.”

“Much better, as she did from me.” Dany pulled a coiled whip from the side of her breeches and cracked it on the floor. _Please, Your Grace. Do it. Set my world to right, and I’ll do the same for yours._ It was hers, of course. All of it. He ruled a patch of dirt in her stead; nothing more.

Wordlessly, Dany moved behind him. Jon looked at the Iron Throne, empty but menacing. He inhaled deeply and braced for the lash. _Don’t move. When she wants you to move, she’ll whip you, and you'll move._

His mind flooded as soon as the leather struck his back. He’d forgotten how different it felt when it came from her. With Irri, there was a caution to it, even when she was overcome with anger and lust. Beating him was something she’d learned to enjoy, and only because she knew he enjoyed it too. She had to remind herself of that every time she uncoiled her whip, to silence the protest of her decent heart. It was a game she liked to play, for reasons she could easily explain. Pain from her girlhood; a need to know that there was at least one man who would not treat her as chattel, and who would let her taste the power so many others had wielded so cruelly over her. Each lash carried a gratitude for allowing her to do it, and an assurance that she knew it was a privilege.

In her kinder moments, Dany acknowledged that too, but that all ended the instant she picked up the whip. Her dominion over his very existence became her birthright. The lashes were as necessary as any battle she'd ever fought; her mercy for him no greater than for any man she burned or crucified or sent a horde to trample into the dust; his screams as beautiful as any she'd heard from a man on fire.

Jon gritted his teeth and grunted deep and loudly as the pain demanded its rightful primacy over everything else, like the shadow of wings over a battlefield. He shook and flailed his legs in a sad attempt to escape her, though all that did was make him look like a fool for trying.

The next lash came down before he could even finish the grunt, punishing him for his body's instinct to preserve itself and mocking its utter failure to do so. Grunting again was beyond his faculties; all he could do now was gasp for air.

Then came the next, just as quickly as the one before. Then another, then another, then perhaps another; his body thought it best not to count. Each crack of the whip was thunder in his ears; each lash a bolt of lightning, and he was the tree in the open field, with nothing to do but endure it, and hope it wouldn’t destroy him. _She is the storm._

Without warning, one lash struck lower, on the fleshy part of his ass. It drew a yelp, with a crack in his voice that betrayed how close he was to tears. He could feel them forming in his eyes. _She’ll only make it worse now._

For half a heartbeat, he was dumb enough to think that maybe she wouldn't, until he heard the footsteps. A hand pulled him back by the hair, and a knee landed square on his balls from behind.

“Are you daft?!” She shouted, inches from his ear. _Yes._ She gave him no time to speak, but bit his earlobe and crippled him for everything but a scream of pain. “You may be dead, or you may be dreaming,” she snarled. “Wherever you are, you're beyond the reach of mercy.” She pinched and twisted a nipple. “You will cry when I command it, and no sooner. Do you understand me?!”

Jon nodded silently, shaking and biting the inside of his mouth, as it was his only way to obey her. Perhaps he would have pissed himself, but his cock was still as hard as it had been at the start, and Jon was beginning to suspect it would remain that way until Her Grace willed otherwise.

Dany chuckled to herself, and ran her hand lightly down his chest to his cock. She pinched up and down his shaft, and the head, and all around where the two met. It was a cruel, sharp pain, but did nothing to soften him. “Such an observant little bastard,” she whispered, despite the thought having never passed Jon’s lips. Her voice made no effort to hide the thick, dark lust inside her. “I could do much worse, now. Give me what I want, lest you see.” Stone-faced and staring right through him, she thrust her knee into his balls once more for good measure, kissed him deeply and passionately for just long enough to scramble his mind again, and returned to her place behind him.

 _'You've beaten worse, you've beaten worse, you've beaten worse,’_ he used to tell himself, but he wondered if that was still true.  _‘That only matters if you want to fight this,’_ said Dany, this time from the inside. _‘Do you?’_

Before he could answer, the whip struck his back once more. Twice more. Thrice. Jon bit his cheek, heeding Her Grace’s command not to cry. After the fourth, he tasted blood. _Her blood. She’s everywhere._

“The red woman made you breathe again, but who gave you life?”

“You did, Your Grace!” The blood of demons filled his mouth, and he swallowed every drop.

She lashed him again. “ _This_ gives you life.” And again. “Do you deny it?” And again. “Speak, bastard!”

“No, Your Grace!” He shouted. “No, I don’t deny it!” _Throw yourself at her mercy,_ part of him urged. _She’ll give you none,_ another reminded him. But the more she tormented him, the less he cared. _Pray you never wake up from this._

“Oh, but you do!” She lashed harder. His feet struggled in vain to touch the floor. She hit him again for trying. Twice. Three times. _Irri would only lash me once for that_. Four. Five. _She’s not Irri._ And a sixth to reward him for puzzling that out.

After a brief lull, he felt the cold leather of the whip drape itself around his collarbone and tighten around his neck. Daenerys stood on her toes behind him, her breath washing menacingly over his skin, as his own breath struggled through his constricted throat.

“You pledge yourself to your wife,” Dany pulled the whip tighter to ensure his full attention, “and when she needs you the most, you lock her away and whine like a child.” She twisted the whip, tightening it even more. _Helpless._ She nipped playfully at his earlobe. “Yes, bastard. Utterly helpless.” It no longer troubled him that she knew his thoughts.

Jon could feel a puff of breath escape through her nose and a soft grunt of pleasure in her throat. _My face must be turning red._ He thanked her silently for another chance to please her.

Dany’s lips brushed against his ear as she spoke. “But you like that, don’t you? How many times have you found yourself hopelessly surrounded by enemies?”

_Castle Black, when you stood up for Sam against the others. Your whole time with the Wildlings, when you fell in love with a woman who threatened to cut your cock off. Mance Rayder’s camp. Hardhome. Rickon. The arrowhead. Fuck me, she's right._

Dany felt no need to wait for an answer. “Have you ever wondered why that always happens to you?” She flicked her tongue against his earlobe. “Because you choose it, you beautiful, _twisted_ little slut.” He could see her grin from the corner of his eye. “You love it. You live for it. When you can’t defend yourself, you find the strength to defend those who truly need it.” She loosened the whip just enough to let him breathe, then took his cock in one hand. “Now you have armies, and dragons, and the love of your people, yet you can't defend our wife from these cowards and my discarded boywhore?”

“Tell me how, Your Grace,” Jon pleaded as he caught his breath. “Please.”

Dany seemed to find that amusing. “I’d rather watch you puzzle that out yourself.” _Of course you would._ She knotted the whip so it would stay on his neck like a leash, then stood back. The chains turned to dust, and Jon fell to his hands and knees.

He looked up at Daenerys Stormborn towering over him. _Why can’t helplessness always look this good?_

She tugged lightly on the makeshift leash. “What do good boys do?”

Jon leaned down and planted a kiss on each boot, then grinned up at her like a fool, waiting for her look of approval. He blushed when he got it.

“I love you too, bastard. Now come.” She tugged his leash, led him to the Throne, then picked him up by his hair and sat his ass down on it. Her figure filled his field of view, and all that remained of the world were her eyes. _She’s done terrible things, but she’s always been my master._

His master rested a knee between his legs, then grabbed his cock and squeezed. “Yours?”

Jon shook his head silently, having been disabused of that foolishness years ago.

“Whose?”

 _Irri’s?_ With the distinct advantage of not being dead, Irri’s claim was stronger. _And Dany raped her. That can’t go unpunished._ Yet here was Dany, telling Jon what a shit he was, making quite a bit of sense, and commanding him to redeem them both. _Bugger it, just tell the truth._ “Yours, Your Grace.”

Dany smiled down lovingly and unlaced her breeches again. When she finished, she smiled her permission for him to pull her breeches down. Her ass freed itself from her breeches with that perfect little bounce that made him as giddy and mystified as the first time he'd ever seen a naked woman.

“I truly was a terrible person to her,” she told him, as she straddled him and held his cock in place. “Please forgive me?”

Jon put his hands around her waist and slid them down to her ass, smooth and firm and tight as ever. _Ask now, while you still have some wits about you._ “Why did you do that, Your Grace?”

She paused, and seemed genuinely uncertain. “Why did I do most of the things I did?”

 _The whole world would like to know that._ “I'll forgive you if she does.”

Dany stroked his cheek with her free hand and pressed her forehead against his. “See that she does, then.”

Finding it impossible to fight the urge, Jon gripped the flesh of her ass, shook it, then slapped it. Dany purred, pressed her weight down, and took him inside her.

For a few moments, they made love like normal people. They kissed, and held each other. The whip-turned-leash stayed loose around his neck. Dany rode him gently, letting him simply love her. Tongues intertwined, fingers brushed through hair, and soft gasps drifted between mouths. But as it always did, power flowed where nature commanded. Dany’s dead blue eyes widened as if to consume him, but Jon felt no fear, and gave himself to her. _‘There is no world but the one I created for you,’_ her voice flooded his mind. _‘I created a precious woman for your wife. Don’t let her go to waste like I did.’_

The soft gasps became panting, and panting became moaning, and the difference between nature and Dany’s will disappeared. She pinned Jon’s shoulders to the back of the Throne, and with that, he was crippled. Prey. Fodder for the Dragon, and never happier. She kissed him again, long and deep, but broke off suddenly. “I told you not to cry until I command it. Do you remember?” Her hips built up to a quick but deliberate rhythm.

He lacked the strength, temerity, or presence of mind for words. _Yes, Your Grace._

“Good.” She tugged the whip until the slack around his neck was gone. “I command it. Now. _Cry._ ”

Jon rarely cried, and was terrible at feigning emotion on command, but somehow, the tears came nonetheless. It wasn’t the beating that did it, or even the memory of Dany’s death. It was everything since then. How he claimed to serve and worship his wife, but silenced her whenever she became an inconvenience. How he twisted himself into believing it was his duty to tear his own children from their mother. How his advisors talked him into such foolishness, so utterly blind to its cruelty. How he’d always begged the Realm to accept her, instead of daring them not to. How much she’d given him, despite having given far too much to far too many people over her life, and how he begrudged her even the pittance of respect she asked in return. How the last thing he remembered before Daenerys was Tyrion dragging him out of the privy; the fruits of his attempt to fight misery alone.

Dany grinned down at Jon through his tears, kissing them, licking them from his cheeks. “I feed on your suffering,” she growled breathlessly, thrusting her body down harder. “You’ve known that for years.”

“It’s your monster...”

“Who else?!” Dany tugged the whip hard, cutting his breath off again. “You’re helpless against it, and you fucking _love_ it. Give me more, bastard. _More! FEED IT!_ ” She slid her free hand down to her clit, and took in the sight of his tear-strewn face. Something on her face seemed to plead forgiveness for her crimes, but her body simply took what was hers. _Take it. Please._

She fucked him like she no longer had anything to prove, because she didn't. She had come home to find her pet waiting on his knees to greet her, and now she played in her favorite chair with her favorite living toy. Her fingers worked her clit as she rode him, making her scream and kiss him, then pull away and slap him, then flood his cock with her wetness.

Jon felt himself throbbing harder, the urgency building with each thrust of her hips. But the closer he got, and the more Dany recovered from her pleasure, the more malice crept onto her face. _No, no, no, please, you fucking dead cunt, even you're not that cruel._

As it happened, she was that cruel. “Don't you dare,” she growled, as she brought her body to a stop with one final thrust of all her weight. She bit his lower lip, and dragged it between her teeth. “Don't you _fucking_ dare.”

Jon put his hands up in surrender. Dany spat in his face, slapped him, grinned like a fool, and kissed him one last time. She stood, and gazed sternly down at him; the loving, playful cruelty gone from her face. She pointed between his legs, where a cage had appeared from wherever the chains had earlier.

“Not until it’s done.” She loosened her collar and gave him a good look at the stitches that Sam had sewn into her neck to make her presentable for her funeral. “I’ve paid my debt, Jon Snow.” She lifted his chin to meet her eyes. “Now you pay yours.”

Jon gasped himself awake, rolled over, and gasped again when he found a fully clothed, snoring Tyrion mere inches from his face. The room was nearly dark as pitch, save for the moonlight through the window. His hand went straight to his cock, constrained only by his breeches. _Thank the gods._ He rolled out of bed, composed himself, and made his way to the antechamber.

"The next time you need me to do something,” he berated the startled Unsullied outside his door, “just ask me, like a normal person. Is that so hard?"

The eunuch gave him a perplexed look. "This one--"

“No more of these mad cunts telling me, 'oh, you have a very important task, Jon Snow, but I won’t tell you how to do it,  _tee hee hee!_ ' Then they climb all over my cock, then they fuck off and die. I’m getting too old for that. Just _ask me._ ” Jon took a deep breath and shook himself off. "I'm sorry. That’s not-- I'm going for a walk alone. Stay here."

The crisp autumn air on the battlements was the closest thing to freedom that he'd felt in a long time. _No one’s around. Breathe, for once._ He looked out at the reflection of the moon on Blackwater Bay, peaceful and sprawling. _And empty._ He pictured a single galley, rowing its way east, hooking north when it reached the open water. _And cold._ It hadn't struck him until then. He turned away from the bay, toward the inner buildings of the castle.

Drogon landed next to the rookery and screeched. The beast seemed distraught, as he tried in vain to find a comfortable place to rest near the rookery. _The children are in there._ Drogon gave him a look that felt like a stab to the gut. _You're right, boy, that's not their home._ They were all part of him, now. The beast and its mother; the children and theirs.

Jon barged into the rookery. His wife and children’s rooms were guarded, and though it pained him, he thought it best not to force his way in. Instead, he found the Grand Maester’s room and forced his way into that one.

“Sam,” Jon poked him as he lay sleeping. “Sam!”

The Grand Maester rolled onto his back, groaned, and opened his eyes. He looked at Jon, warning him that this had better be important.

“Sam, get up. I need your help.”

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he grumbled. “They’ll say you--”

“Conspired. I know. So get dressed, we’ll conspire outside.”

Sam climbed out of bed, stretched, and tossed a cloak over his nightclothes. “We’re not supposed to do that, either.”

On the other side of the mattress, Gilly lifted her head and turned toward them. “No, but you’ll do it anyway. So go!” She snatched Sam’s pillow to deny him a choice, and rolled over.

Jon led a staggering Sam into the bailey, where the restless Drogon finally proved enough of a startle to fully rouse him. Sam jumped back. “For fuck’s sake.” The beast let out an irritated snort and a puff of smoke from his nose.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just cross with me,” Jon explained casually, motioning for Sam to follow him toward the steps leading up to the battlements.

“Oh, well, that’s alright then!” Sam followed regardless, as Jon led him back up the steps. “Why am I here?” He asked breathlessly, when they reached the top.

“You heard what Irri said today,” Jon replied. “If she testified to that at a trial, and the judges believe her--”

Sam was crankier than usual, and more blunt. “They won’t believe her! Daenerys was not exactly subtle about what you three got up to. Men make certain assumptions about people like that.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Do you believe those assumptions?”

“No, of course not.” Sam paused, then blushed and chuckled. “Sometimes, Gilly and I--”

Jon felt an unwanted but irresistible curiosity, like the sort one felt watching a man being mauled alive by a shadowcat. “What…”

“...But with us, well, I suppose you could say I’m Daenerys.”

 _This is what curiosity gets you._ Jon’s face twisted.

Sam grinned at his discomfort. “One thing I learned at the Citadel was how much punishment the human body can take. And I like to show her. _Gods_ , I love to push her until she can’t--”

“That’s enough.”

But Sam wasn’t done showing him what he could take. “This one maester invented this little metal wheel with prickly points on the end, to test if your nerves are working.”

“Stop.”

Sam was enjoying this immensely. “It doesn’t hurt, but it can be terrifying if you’re not expecting it. So sometimes I blindfold her, and roll it over her--”

Jon raised his voice. “Enough!” _But get me one of those when this is over._ “Suppose Gilly had murdered an innocent man to avoid blame for what Craster did to her. What would you have me do if half the Realm wanted her dead for it?”

“In this hypothetical quandary in which I am asking you for a favor and not the other way round, which allows me to answer this without breaking my oath, I’d want you to do that thing where you take some absurd risk and hope it works itself out.”

Jon smiled. “I'm good at those.”

“You are,” Sam smiled back. "So how can I help you get your wife back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The maester's name is Wartenberg, btw.


	7. Irri III

_Is this not punishment enough?_ With nothing else to do, Irri had taken to reading in bed, hoping to no avail that it would help her sleep. Well past the hour of the wolf, she was on what she guessed to be her sixth hour of Archmaester Perestan’s _A Consideration of History_ , and not even halfway through. She read the first two sentences of a chapter on a war between the Starks and Arryns that ended two thousand years ago, and flipped restlessly to the end. Not that she cared, but the Arryns won. _‘This was not a case of the Eyrie winning so much as Winterfell losing interest,’_ Perestan had written. _Who can blame them?_

She thumbed through the rest of the book, wondering if Archmaester Perestan had ever bothered to consider a part of history that mattered, when Jon flung the door open. _Perhaps he’ll simply kill me now_. That would be a mercy.

Irri sat up. “What do you--”

“Hush.” He grabbed her face and planted his lips against hers. She let him, but refused to show him the same passion. He broke the kiss and stared at her, almost dumbfounded at what he’d done. _I hope you don’t expect me to explain it to you._

“You told me not to seduce you out of this...” She warned, more breathless than she cared to admit.

“You’re not. I’m seducing you out of this.” He lifted her nightshirt over her head, and guided her to the side of the mattress.

“Out of what?!” Too tired to fight, she went against her better judgment and followed him, letting her legs dangle just above the floor. She looked up at him as he began to strip as well, spitefully hiding the lust that the sight of his body gave her.

Jon dropped to his knees and looked up. “Fear.” He moved his head between her legs, but Irri stopped him with a palm to his forehead before he got too close.

“Are you mad?! Do you think you can come in here and slobber all over my cunt after what you've done to me?”

He had enough sense to stop, but not enough to say anything useful. “I'm sorry, _Khaleesi._ ”

 _Your_ Khaleesi, _or your whore?_ “Do not call me that if you mean to set me aside and shame me in front of the Realm.”

“I don't, _Khaleesi._ I’ll explain later. Please, trust me. I owe you a debt. Let me pay it. Teach me not to forsake you for anything else again. Punish me for even thinking it.”

 _At least he has the decency to beg._ She rested her feet on Jon’s thighs. Her fingers moved to his hair and gripped it. She plainly enjoyed it, but the pain and doubt still won out over love and lust. “It’s not punishment if I do it because you demanded it,” she stared down and reminded him. “You know better than that.”

Jon looked up at her. “Then do it because it’s who you are. Because no stranger has the right to forbid you from it. Because for the thousandth time, you’re not Dany, and you shouldn’t have to answer for her madness. You’re the mother of your own Dragons now, and Dragons don’t rot in cells.”

 _Men will say anything when their blood is hot._ Irri stood, but kept her grip on his hair and pulled his head back to keep his eyes on hers. “Prove this isn’t some fleeting madness that will go away the moment you spill your seed.”

“How, _Khaleesi?_ ”

 _There's only one way, isn't there?_ She tapped his cock lightly with her foot. “Spill your seed, and show me what happens.” _If he’s full of shit, he’ll make up some excuse and leave the moment he’s finished._

Jon moved his hand toward his cock, but hesitated. _Why would he stop?_

“This is not the night to make me doubt you.” _Am I enjoying this, or is it all I know?_ She slapped his face, hard, then grabbed his hand and spat into his open palm. “ _Spill your seed!_ ”

Jon began to stroke, looking up at her, searching desperately for any sign of her approval, but she was not yet ready to give him that satisfaction.

 _Remind him why I’m here._ “Daenerys was dead when I ordered that man murdered,” she continued, as Jon stroked. “And for the ten years I hid this from you. You can’t blame her for that.”

“I know, _Khaleesi._ I don't care.”

She watched his hand build its rhythm. “The Realm may not be so forgiving.”

“I'll manage it. You come before all of them.”

She yanked his head toward her cunt and rubbed his nose in it, but pushed him back the moment his tongue came out. “If your deeds don't match your words, this will be the last time you kneel for me. You’ll remember your false promises for the rest of your days.”

“Good boys keep their word, _Khaleesi._ ” Those words came out in the sad, desperate panting of a man diddling himself out of misery.

“But are you a good boy, or are you one more man making stupid promises while his cock is hard?”

“I'm a good boy, _Khaleesi,_ you know that.” _Do I?_ His breath and speech grew more frantic. “You're my life. You and the children. I couldn't--” _The sad, desperate panting of a man about to lose his wife._ That was slightly better, but still didn’t prove he wasn’t a treacherous bag of shit.

“Enough.” She hit him again. “Stop bleating and do as you're bid.”

Jon stopped bleating and did as he was bid. Sometimes she liked to watch him, but this was not one of them. There was still too much fury inside her, an utter impatience for games, and a deep distrust. That was her fault as much as his, but that neither had any choice but to overcome it.

Jon closed his eyes and pushed himself to finish. His thumb stroked the head as the rest of his fingers worked the shaft. _Pathetic._ And not the entertaining sort of pathetic. _Just pathetic._ He shuddered, grunted, and gave his wife what she wanted, right in front of her feet.

“Clean it up.” She pushed his nose to the floor, to make her meaning clear.

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” Jon lapped it up dutifully, with neither a hint of complaint nor the giddy whorishness he often slipped into when he licked his own filth off the floor. _A good sign, I suppose._

Her eyes were ready for him when he finished and looked up. “Are you still mine, then?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

She gave him a kick to the balls with the top of her foot. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

She kicked harder. “Say it!” And again, holding his hair tight to keep him in place. “ _Say it!_ ”

Jon reeled from the pain, but gritted his teeth and answered the question regardless. “I’m certain, _Khaleesi!_ I’m yours, now and always!”

 _This is not punishment._ Nor was it a desperate attempt to keep her crown by whoring herself for his fleeting pleasure. It was a genuine hope that he meant what he said; that he would stand by her even when his body no longer craved base satisfaction. It was a test of his strength in the face of the one weakness that all men shared. It was love. Their love, and no one else’s. Jon’s cock was soft, yet he seemed just as fervent as he’d been before.

 _Very well, let him prove himself._ She released him. “What do you mean to do? Tell me.”

“What Dany would do. The Dany we fell in love with. The one who put those she loved before anyone else. The one who fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. The one who changed this world forever. She owes you a debt, and so do I. Let me pay for us both.”

 _Perhaps he should spill his seed again._ Irri knew Jon admired that side of Daenerys, but he always preferred to let that change come slowly, and ruled to preserve stability above all else. It sounded half-mad coming from him. _And very nice, but thin on details._ “But what will you _do_ , Jon?”

“Put you on trial, as I said earlier. You and Missandei will admit to the charges, but show no remorse. The judges will sentence you to die.”

 _You’ll have to do much better if you want my cunt again._ “So far, nothing new. Then what?”

“I’ll wait until your head’s on the block, then pardon you. Fully. Sam will send ravens to every lord in Westeros describing your crimes, and the pardon, and summon them all to King’s Landing within a moon’s turn to renew their fealty.”

“A King can’t pardon his own kin, my love. You can grant leniency, but once the judges pass a sentence, you can’t simply refuse to carry it out.” _You’d know that if you’d spent three days with nothing to do but read._

“Trust me, _Khaleesi,_ please. It will be over in a few hours.”

“My trial, perhaps, if you keep your word. But not this rebellion.”

“No, that will take a day or two. I’ll sail on the evening tide for Saltpans with the Royal Army and some Dothraki, _and_ the dragons, burn Daario Naharis alive for the whole town to witness, and send his ashes back to Meereen.” _You made my cunt stir, I’ll grant you that._ “It will take two days to get there by ship. The battle will last half a day at most. We’ll crush them for good and be back before to receive our oaths.”

Irri nodded. That sounded much better. She could get used to having a good little tyrant at her feet. “Spoken like a true Targaryen.”

“You’ll come with me and lead the Dothraki.”

 _Cocksure madness included._ “ _I’ll_ lead the Dothraki.”

“You’ll land a few miles away with a thousand screamers. The Royal Army will let you through the blockade, and you’ll sack it.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, my love, all I proved on the march from Winterfell is that I’m a bigger sot than I look. I know nothing of how to lead men in a true battle. I’d be of more use if you swung me by my ankles like a club. How am I to--”

“You kick your horse into a gallop and charge toward the town screaming. So far as I know, that’s all there is to it.”

Irri laughed. “With my people, I suppose you’re right. But my people--”

“Your people worship you,” Jon assured her. “They know you’re short and terrible with an _arakh_ , and they won’t expect otherwise. They’ll guard you with their lives. A thousand Dothraki and a thousand trained soldiers will make short work of a few dozen sellswords.”

“The tale the Realm will hear is that a Dothraki horde trampled Saltpans into the dust,” she reminded him.

“Precisely.”

“We’ve spent ten years promising that won’t happen.”

“And that was my mistake. They’re a weapon at the Crown’s disposal, just like any other army. Their skin is brown and their blades are curved. That’s all. Why are a thousand of them so much worse than a thousand men with lions or wolves or falcons on their breastplates?” _I’ve been asking that for years. You tell me._ “They’re not.” _Good answer._ “And they’re not going anywhere. We should stop coddling the Realm and begging them to accept your people when we should be daring them not to.” _Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?_ “And they should know that _you_ will lead them. Not some milk man on your behalf.”

 _Don’t think with your cunt,_ she reminded herself. Its stirring had grown more urgent. “This is quite stupid, my love.”

“Well-timed stupidity is what got me my crown,” Jon replied with a smirk. “Why stop now?”

Irri chuckled, and watched that humble smile creep onto Jon’s face; the one he got when he knew he had nothing to be humble about. “Why this sudden change?”

“Never mind why. Please, _Khaleesi._ Please trust me. I’ve never had to ask you until this all started. Now I’m begging it.”

Unlike most things he begged for, that hurt her to see. It hurt that she'd had to beg for that as well. It hurt that she hadn’t told him of all this earlier, and that he had to hear it from a man he despised.

Irri hesitated. “I want to beat you.” Not because she was angry, though she was, but because she wanted desperately to hold onto that part of their love. _If that survives, so will the rest._ She searched his eyes for reluctance, but found none. _Please don’t be hiding it from me._ “Get your belt.”

Still on his knees, Jon reached behind himself and pulled his belt from his breeches, laying on the floor where he’d dropped them. He placed it reverently into her outstretched hand.

She took it, folded it in half, and pointed toward the bed. “Are you certain you still trust me with this? You can say no, and it would grieve me, but I’d spare you.”

“I’m certain, _Khaleesi._ ” He bent over the side of the mattress. “If I weren’t, I’d have spilled my seed and left.”

She stood behind him and gave his ass a light smack, because the very sight of it compelled her. “May I give you one before we start counting?” She couldn't help herself.

Jon chuckled. “Of course, _Khaleesi._ ”

Still uncertain, Irri gave him a firm but restrained lash. His skin reddened where the belt struck him, like paint on a canvas. _I should take up painting._

“I’m sorry for putting you through this.” It felt good to say that. “It’s the one thing I didn’t trust you with. Prove you still trust me with a belting, and that I can still trust you with my life. And if you do, I’ll prove you can trust me with far more.”

“You can trust me, _Khaleesi,_ I promise. I’m a man of my word, you know that.”

Angry as she was, Irri could not deny that her husband kept his promises. “Very well, then. It will be twenty for confining me in here.” She pressed his cock and balls against the mattress with her knee; softly at first, then harder. “That’s _generous_ , I’d say, but if you do what you say you will, you’ll have earned some mercy.”

Jon grunted. “Thank you, _Khaleesi._ ”

She pulled her knee away and let him take a breath or two. “And I’m not the only one who had to endure this. Lady Missandei may do with you as she pleases, if that’s her wish.”

“I understand, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Good.” She lined the belt up with the fleshy part of his ass and drew it back. “ _Count!_ ”

Jon counted, and thanked her, as he'd been trained to do.

“This war would have happened anyway,” she told him after the first lash. Then came the second. “Better now than ten years ago, when the Realm was still in chaos.”

“Two, thank you _Khaleesi_.” Jon pressed through the pain, like a good boy. “You're right, we should have prepared for it. Let it start on our terms.”

“We should have, but we didn’t.” She struck him a third time. “Now all we can do is win it.” And a fourth. “Yes?!”

Jon counted, and thanked her, and agreed.

“Good.” And a fifth. “Win it, then.”

Irri said nothing further for the rest of it, preferring to let her mind float into the ecstasy that nothing else could give her. She struck him in a different spot each time, like a painter with her brush, and harder than usual. _If he doesn’t stop me, he trusts me._ She loved this man, but he was asking her to put her neck on a headsman’s block, on the promise that neither the crowd nor his advisors nor his own pain and anger would sway him from sparing her. _If he trusts me, he’ll keep his word._

The more she struck him, the redder his ass grew, and the more it made her want to strike harder. _A bit of lust is good. Feed on it._ By the tenth lash, he was gripping the sheets desperately, grasping in vain for the other side of the mattress. The muscles in his back bulged as he twisted. Everything inside him was screaming for him to escape, and there was nothing stopping him, but he held himself there and gave himself to her regardless. She could taste the building lust in her own mouth as it began to water. _Yes. More. You’re mine, boy. Don’t ever forget it again._

The last few lashes were shamelessly brutal. By the twentieth, his ass was bright red and swollen, bruising in spots, and he was on the verge of tears. She tossed the belt aside and caressed his skin, warm and tenderized. _Indulge yourself._ She pinched him and watched him yelp and squirm. _Mmm, yes. Again._

“Are you alright, sweetling?” _Yes, I called you that._

“Yes.” He was breathless, so she gave him the chance to correct himself without prompting. “Yes _Khaleesi._ ” _Good boy._

“Good.” She grabbed him by the waist. “On your back.”

Jon knew what was coming, and grinned like the whore he was as he rolled over. Before he could slide all the way up onto the mattress, Irri lifted his legs and gave his ass one more hard smack, just to see him wince. _Best wince in the Seven Kingdoms._

“This is not a reward, boy,” she warned him as she mounted his face. “No rewards until you keep your word.” _Then what is it?_ She wanted him more than she expected, given the circumstances. _Anger breeds lust sometimes._ Assuming that was the answer, she began to grind.

Jon’s mouth reminded her why he was so easy to fall in love with. Her cunt became the only part of her body she could feel, and its pleasure was all she could trouble itself to think about. She silently thanked the Starks for lying to him all those years; for searing into his mind that everything he did had to be twice as good as a trueborn boy.

His tongue pressed against her clit from angles that even she didn't know were possible. She squeezed her thighs around his head and pressed down with all her weight, claiming him once more. _You'll go nowhere without my leave. Ever again, boy. Do you hear me?!_ She tried to say the words, but all that came out was a groan that started from somewhere deep inside her and built itself into a scream from the top of her lungs, forcing her spine to arch and her eyes to fly back toward the ceiling.

Had she cared, she would have bitten her tongue to muffle it, but she had never cared less about anything. _Let them think he's murdering me. No one will stop him._ She sealed his mouth shut with her cunt and pressed her mound against his nose, growling softly to herself as he struggled to breathe, taking twisted pleasure in knowing that it was she who could murder him if she wished, and that he’d chosen to put himself at her mercy. _Breathing is your problem, not mine. Not tonight. I'll concern myself with your body's trifles when you pay your debt._

As usual, the pleasure built quickly. But the more it built, the more Irri felt like something was missing. _I need him in me._ And not because she wanted to look into his eyes and make sweet love to him. She was still wroth with him, and had indulged him too much already. _When did you bleed last?_

That was the true answer to why she wanted him so badly, when by rights she should not even be entertaining the idea of fucking him. _You’re fertile._ She could sense it. Her lust was deeper and madder than usual, and it was deep and mad enough on a normal day. But on a normal day, she fucked him to feel like his woman, or his wife, or his mistress. Tonight, she wanted nothing but to pump his seed out of him, like water from a well. _The gods gave you a cunt so you can breed with it. This is the finest man that ever lived. He won’t refuse you. He can’t. He’s yours. Take what you need from him._

Irri looked down and released him. She had his hair in her fists, tight enough to pull it straight out of his scalp, though she had no memory of how it got there. Wordlessly, she slid down his body, pinning him in place with her eyes as firmly as if she’d nailed him to a crucifix.

Jon looked up as she slid his cock against her soaked cunt to harden it. “I thought you said no rewards until--”

 _Shut your slut mouth, this is none of your concern._ She slapped him with one hand and guided him into her cunt with the other. “This is no reward.” She gasped softly as he filled her. “This is me taking your _fucking_ seed and putting it in my belly, because I _fucking_ want it.” Her hips wasted no time finding the proper angle, or teasing him, or waiting for him to grow accustomed to her. _This is not about you._ “Because I _need_ it. I just _do._ Do you understand me?!”

Jon nodded, though Irri could not be certain he truly took her meaning. _No matter. Talk later. Fuck now._ She spat in his face, not because it gave her any particular pleasure, but merely to remind him that until she decided otherwise, he was no longer a person. _You're a thing. A beast of burden. And you’ll bear it until you can bear it no more._

Sweat began to drip from her brow, and landed on his face. To her mild annoyance, she found herself working to bring him to his peak, as he’d spilled his seed only a few minutes prior. _But that was necessary,_ she reminded herself. And there were far worse problems to have. _If he betrays you, at least you’ll die with a sore cunt._

A sudden flash of mischief crossed Jon’s face, and before Irri could react, she found herself pinned on her back with the wind knocked out of her. _Mmmm._ Perhaps he could sense something. Or perhaps this was his way of provoking her into another beating. _No matter. Take your pounding. Let him pump your cunt full, and deal with him later._

Jon grabbed her face. “You're in heat,” he growled. “I can smell it.” _No you can't,_ she knew. _You guessed well, that’s all._ But it was the most cunt-drenching thing he'd said in a long time, so she believed it anyway, and wrapped her legs around his waist, screaming helplessly like the captive slave she'd once been. A warm feeling washed over her. For as much as she’d changed since girlhood, she still took comfort in helplessness sometimes. _Relief._ Gratitude for a man that made her feel safe enough to show that side of herself.

 _But don't let him grow too bold._ There was still the matter of her impending execution, and her womb that had been empty for far too long. “Go on, do it.” She pulled his head down, so his ear was next to her mouth, and nipped at it. “Put a baby in me,” she whispered, “then kill me the next day. I dare you. I _fucking_ dare you.” _Show me I can trust you not to._

“Bugger that, you're _mine._ ” Jon thrust deep into her and held her in place and pounded away at her fertile, savage, slave cunt. _Yes, fuck, yes, fill me, then. Do it!_

Her cunt was pulsing too hard, but her desperate moan got her point across. Jon pulled himself out just long enough to flip her onto her stomach. _Gods, yes, fuck me, breed me, like a Khal with some slut from a sacked village. Give me another child. I want yours. Only yours. Please, please, please!_

She worked her clit with one hand as his hips smacked over and over against her ass. _Yes, take me, take me, take me. Never let me go. Ever._ She threw her weight back against him, her cunt refusing to settle for less than every inch. Jon was of the same mind, and pulled her back by her hair. A flash of fear pulsed through her, as her throat was suddenly exposed, but that only made her wetter. _Pretend he might actually do it._ That made her throb, and scream, and nearly cry.

Irri was fairly certain she'd hit her peak, though she may have simply had the wits fucked out of her when Jon reached his. She could sense him filling her, one burst after another, after another, after another. Even if he’d fucked her numb, the fury in his growl was unmistakable. Her body shook and gave out, collapsing onto the mattress and letting him do as he pleased with her. She may have closed her eyes, or rolled them back in her head, or simply forgotten she had them. _Don't lose a drop,_ was the last thing she remembered.

It may have only been a few moments, or it may have been hours, but dawn was breaking when her eyes finally opened. _Lack of sleep and half-mad fucking have a way of scrambling the mind._

Irri sat up, and realized she may well have fallen asleep with her cunt in the air. Her back and legs ached, and it took her a moment to work out where her pillow was in relation to where she'd actually slept. Jon was beside her, naked, his legs dangling off the side of the bed.

“Wake up, sweetling.” She shook his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. Jon swatted at her, not even half awake. That roused the tyrant in her once more, but she was too tired and too happy to do anything but kiss him again. _He's earned one act of insolence. One._

Jon opened one eye and smirked lovingly. _That’s adorable, but don’t think I’ve forgotten your promises._ He stretched and looked around, uncertain where he was. _The prison cell you put me in, my love._

“Do you remember what you said last night?” Tired and well-fucked as she was, she could still not help but be afraid, and refused to dance around it. “Do you still mean it? Or have you come to your senses?”

“I remember.” Jon stood, hoping it would wake him up quicker. “And I mean it.” His face gave her no reason to doubt him. “You've suffered enough for one lifetime. And I've been too easy on too many people for too long. They'll respect you or they'll die screaming, it's that simple.”

That sort of talk was so unlike him, and it made Irri blush and want to fuck him again. _Respect at the peril of dragonfire. That's all I've ever asked._ “Thank you, sweetling. I trust you’ll keep your word, and I can't say enough how sorry I am for putting you through this.”

Jon seemed tired of hearing it. “What’s done is done. Today, we put it in the past.”

“You should go, and dress for my rigged trial,” Irri smirked, and Jon nodded in agreement. A thought came to her. She hesitated. _No, this is important._ “May I give you one command?”

By the satisfied look on Jon’s face, Irri wagered he would have given her his left ball if she asked. “Of course, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Cage yourself, and bring me the key. I’ll let you out as soon as I can when this is done, I promise. No tricks.”

Jon looked at her, confused. “That's a few hours, at most.”

 _Did I give you leave to question me?_ But she wanted him to know the answer. “Daenerys caged you on the day she died, but Sam cut you free while you were unconscious, and never spoke of it again. If I die today, I want you to have to look him in the eye and ask him to saw your dead wife's cage off your cock so you can diddle yourself.”

Jon seemed mildly offended, but knew better than to make her doubt his sincerity. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

Once he left, Irri dressed herself as well, in riding pants and a bronze-colored tunic with rearing stallions embroidered over the heart, and the three-headed dragon between them. She donned her crown and admired herself in the mirror. _Not bad for a dead woman._

She put on her best sad face, as the guards outside her door chained her wrists and marched her to the Throne Room, where she found Missandei waiting outside. “I like your sad face,” she grinned.

Missandei only returned a nervous half-smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The Queen and her Hand made their way down the center aisle of the tightly packed Throne Room in their finery and chains. They sat in a large cage near the witness box, at the base of the steps. Sam informed them of their right to be tried separately, which they both waived. Standing in front of the Throne, Jon recited some words about how the law prohibits him from judging his kin, and recused himself in favor of a panel of judges. Grave as her expression was, Irri could think of nothing but fucking that man again.

Edd Tollett sat the Throne itself, looking like he had a rat up his ass. To either side of him were Jhogo and Grey Worm. Both Easterners would vote to convict, of course, though Irri could not miss the look the eunuch shot Missandei. _So he does feel pain._

“You’re both charged with murder, treason, frustrating the Crown’s justice,” Edd began, after some formalities. “Your Grace stands accused of forcing yourself on a sailor of the Iron Fleet, and cutting out his tongue to silence him.” His voice was the same griping monotone as always. “You’re further accused of conspiring with Lady Missandei to arrange the murder of his captain so he could not reveal your crimes. Do you deny this?”

“No.” Irri and Missandei answered in unison, to muttering from the crowd.

“Good, then we can have lunch at a decent hour,” Edd replied with a smile. The muttering turned to awkward silence. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to raise a defense?”

“No,” they both answered again.

“My reasons are none of your concern,” Irri added, to be that much greater a cunt.

Edd shrugged and turned to the other judges. “Do you see any reason why these two should not be found guilty as charged?”

Deeply uneasy with the Common Tongue, let alone the spectacle, Jhogo and Grey Worm stared back blankly.

“Calm down, my lords. Don't all speak up at once.” That one at least got a ‘pff’ from someone in the back. Grey Worm shook his head first, and Jhogo followed. “Right. Then I suppose I, Eddison of the House Tollett--if you want to call it that--in the name of Jon, who I'm sure you've all met by now, find you both guilty on all charges and hereby sentence you to die.” He turned to Sam. “Is that it?” Sam nodded, and Edd turned back to the crowd. “Right. Then this trial is adjourned, and you may all kindly fuck off.”

Edd stood like the Throne had caught fire. The guards looked to Jon, who nodded solemnly. They opened the cage and led the convicts to a litter awaiting them in the bailey, for the march to the steps of Baelor’s former sept.

They rode in tense silence as the city’s bells began to toll. Irri knew better than to look out the window, but she could sense from the shouting that the crowd was building in the streets. “Whore! Savage! Godless wench! _”_ _Do you truly believe that? After all I’ve done for you?_ It wounded her, and made her nervous. _Will this sway him? Does he fear them enough to betray me?_

“He won’t change his mind,” Missandei finally said, sitting across from her. “He’s too--”

Irri shook her head. “He’ll keep his word,” though she was less certain than before. _Don’t be silly. He won’t let me die without seeing the children._

Missandei did her best to keep their spirits up. “We’ve done much good for two slave girls.”

 _Pray it’s not undone in the next half hour._ She smiled back. “It was all Jon.”

“No, Your Grace,” Missandei replied firmly. “Jon is a great man. He and Daenerys saved the Realm, but you gave us hope it was worth the fight.”

Irri felt a lump in her throat. _Come here, sweetling._ Her eyes must have said it for her, as the Naathi slid to her knees and inched closer. They kissed, softly at first, taking care not to twist their manacles together. _I said come here._ Irri pulled the girl’s face toward hers and kissed deeper, then broke away suddenly. “How far away are we?”

Missandei shrugged, blushing. “I don’t know, _Khaleesi._ ”

Fear gave way to lust. _I need this too badly._ “Breeches off, slut.”

Missandei unlaced them, never taking her eyes away from her _Khaleesi_ , each breath heavier than the last. _Hurry!_ They were down around her knees before she had to say it. Irri pulled Missandei closer and slid her hand down to the warm wetness between her thighs.

“This is mine,” the _Khaleesi_ reminded her, their eyes locked and lips nearly touching.

Missandei nodded, gasping as Irri found her clit and began to tease.

“If we’re dead in an hour, it’s still mine.”

“Yours, _Khaleesi._ ” _Though I’d never begrudge you your eunuch. Please say you know that._

Their lips met again. Irri slid two fingers inside, and stroked just as she knew Missandei liked it. The girl moaned softly into the kiss.

Irri purred in reply, then broke the kiss again and searched her eyes. _Bugger it, this may be my last chance._ “I think I've grown to love you.”

Missandei's smile, and her fingertips on Irri's cheek, confessed she felt the same. “May I speak as your Hand, _Khaleesi?_ ”

Irri nodded.

“One problem at a time.” There was a reassurance to her grin.

Irri smiled back. “Wise counsel, as always.” They kissed again, briefly, but the beast inside her had grown too strong, and she pushed the girl back across the litter into her own seat. “Now give me what's mine.”

Missandei lifted her legs so Irri could crawl between them. Her cunt was slick and sweet, and Irri wasted no time devouring it. She felt the girl's fingers run through her hair, and her legs drawing her in closer, which only made her more ravenous. Her lips trapped Missandei’s clit and refused to let it go, while her tongue had its way with her, reminding the girl how the Queen had earned her crown.

“Please,” Missandei begged, her manacles clinking by Irri’s ears; the cold metal draped around the back of her neck. _One way or another, today we finally escape them._ “Please, don't stop.”

Irri felt the girl's hands gripping the back of her head tighter, clinging to her like life itself. _No one will harm you, sweetling,_ she promised. With each step the litter took, the fear built inside her that Jon would somehow be forced to break his vow, or reveal himself as precisely the opposite sort of man she'd always known him to be. But with that fear came a resolve to protect this woman until her last breath, even if it meant throwing herself in front of a dragon. _These were my crimes, not hers._ She should have said that at the fucking trial, then. _Too late now, but the girl is still mine, and she won't die today._

The lust from the risk and wrongness of it all gave way to an even greater need to show her sweetling just how right this was. Irri slowed down from frenzied consumption to slow, loving strokes with her tongue against Missandei’s clit. _Show her your power. Show her why you deserve it. Bring her to the edge and save her. Show her why the wisest thing she ever did was to give herself to you._ Missandei moaned softly as she stifled herself from growing too loud.

“ _Whore!_ ” Someone else shouted from outside.

Irri pounded her fist against the side of the litter and took her mouth away just long enough to shout. “ _Anni! Yer laz't zhorre!_ ” _‘She's mine, you can't have her!’_

Missandei either didn't appreciate the interruption, or found her _Khaleesi_ ’s protective streak endearing, as she pressed her cunt tight against Irri’s face and refused to let her go. _I won't go anywhere, I promise._

The silent reassurance worked, and Missandei’s body began to heave and twist and grind against her face, hungry and greedy and terrified of death. She moaned, loud enough to be heard outside. Irri looked up, and Missandei looked down, fearful that she'd ruined it.

Irri shook her head and slid her fingers back inside, stroking, showing Missandei how completely she’d mastered her. The girl wailed, louder, removing any doubt that the crowd could hear them. _Do you hear that?! Do you hear these savages in their cage?! Kill us. Do it. Rid the world of this. See how much better you like it._

She grabbed the girl’s waist and pulled her in closer, sucking her clit harder, making her moan just to spite the crowd. _Scream, slut. They’ll think this of us no matter what, so SCREAM!_

Missandei hurtled toward the peak of her bliss, but just before she could lose control of herself. the litter hit the ground. Each of them let out a frustrated grunt.

The door opened, and Tyrion popped his head in, catching Irri’s head still between Missandei’s legs. “Oh, good, I thought we we’d run out of scandals.”  _But then what would we need you for?_

Jon emerged from behind and pushed him away. He smiled, more amused than anything. “You _will_ finish this later, I promise. Get dressed, I’ll block the door.”

Before Jon could pull away, Irri brazenly grabbed his crotch, and smiled when she felt the metal cage. She motioned for him to hand over the key, which he did.

Once they were presentable, Jon stood aside as the two exited. Mercifully, they were using the back entrance, and had cleared the surrounding street, to protect the condemned criminals from the crowd’s wrath. Irri beckoned an Unsullied toward her, and removed the key from its chain. “Swallow this.”

Jon’s eyes widened. Irri's look dared him to stop her, though to her, it felt more like begging. He nodded at the eunuch, who gulped it down with barely a hint of struggle. A light wind blew, reminding Irri of the wetness on her chin. She moved to wipe it off, but stopped herself. _No more hiding._

Jon and the guards led them to the top of the steps, where two blocks had been placed. Sam and the judges stood behind them. Irri turned to face the crowd and knelt before her block, her wrists still chained; her gold, copper, and onyx crown still on her head regardless.

Irri could sense the hunger for blood in the crowd. _If he spares me Longclaw, will they tear me apart anyway?_

As Jon stood between the blocks, she gave him one last look, demanding reassurance; pleading for it. His face was that of a man about to take his wife’s head off, but in his eyes was the good boy she loved so deeply. A guard unceremoniously yanked her crown from her head and pushed her down to the block.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw and held it with the tip touching the ground, wordlessly surveying the crowd. _I swear if you lied to me..._ but what could she threaten that she hadn't already?

“Grand Maester,” Jon shouted, after a painfully long silence.

Sam stepped forward, his ceremonial jeweled chain dangling below his knees.

“My wife and Lady Missandei have confessed to grievous crimes, and a panel of judges have passed a fair sentence. I must confess, it pains me to execute the mother of my children and her loyal friend and servant. But the law forbids me from judging my own kin, so I may grant no clemency or pardons. Is that true?”

“No, Your Grace.” Sam’s words hushed the crowd. “The unified code of Jaehaerys I prohibits a King from changing a sentence duly passed against his own kin. But the code defines the word ‘sentence’ as a punishment for a crime. Pardons, by nature, are not punishments, and therefore not sentences. The code grants monarchs the power to pardon anyone for any crime, and makes no mention of exceptions.”

“Surely this was an error, was it not?” Jon spoke louder, as the crowd realized what was happening.

“Perhaps, Your Grace. But for centuries, the Small Council has been of the opinion that we must follow the law by its letter alone. It’s not for us to guess at dead men’s intentions.” _Horse shit, they do that all the time._ But that horse shit was saving her life.

“Thank you, Grand Maester.” Jon sheathed his sword as Sam stepped back. “In that case, though I find no fault with this sentence, I refuse to carry it out. Her Grace and Lady Missandei are hereby pardoned in full, and shall retain their titles and all attendant rights.”

Jon motioned for them both to rise. Irri stood, exhaled, allowed herself to smile. The crowd began to murmur, as a guard unchained her and put her crown back where it belonged. Someone shouted an obscenity, and jeers began to break out. Jon stood still, and let them make their noise. A ball of manure landed a few feet in front of them, but Jon only grinned as the shadow of wings passed over the plaza.

Drogon hovered above the base of the steps, kicking up dust and sending the crowd sprinting back. He landed with a thud and a roar, and kept his wings spread until the crowd was good and terrified. _‘Give me an excuse,’_ he implored them. Once the fear was palpable, he launched himself back into the air and landed on the roof of a nearby building, knowing that Jon had not finished.

“Her Grace and Lady Missandei have reasons for what they did. The whole Realm will know by evenfall anyway, so I won't explain them, nor will they. We’re done with explanations.”

Irri wanted to stuff Jon’s whole body straight up her cunt in front of everyone. She looked over at Missandei, who seemed to be thinking the same about her. _Soon, sweetling. I meant what I said in the litter._

“Men will say I did this only because she’s my wife, but I’m doing it because any woman who lived through what she did would be justified in doing the same. They’ll say this is proof that Easterners are all savages, yet my cousin suffered just as badly from a man of ancient blood, after escaping another who would have done the same.”

“Queen Daenerys said once that leaders must show strength, and sometimes strength is terrible. She wasn’t wrong, but I’ve always tried to rule without resorting to the terrible kind of strength. Yet this time, I must.”

“I've done my best to bring peace to the Riverlands without burning it down. But some wounds can’t heal without fire to stop the corruption. I’m coming for Daario Naharis. I will rain fire on him by land, sea, and air, and I will not rest until he’s dead. I will give him no trial, and show him no mercy but a quick death, only because dragonfire burns too hot for a slow one. If he flees Saltpans, I will follow him. Anyone who gives him quarter will be burned alive with him. Send riders. Tell him what I said. Tell him to sail to Meereen immediately, lest he turn to ash.” He motioned Irri forward. “Come. Speak.”

 _Say what you think, not what someone would tell you to think. This is your second coronation._ “I’m grateful to my husband, but that was the last time I will allow anyone to vouch for me, like a stranger who wandered off the road, begging shelter in my own land.” She pointed toward the Red Keep. “I hold court every third day. If you feel I’ve mistreated you, then walk up that hill, kneel before me, and ask for redress. If you only wish to bleat about how I don’t look like you, bleat to yourself, and do it softly.”

Jon nodded as Irri stepped back. “You heard her. We're done here. Leave.”

The three turned and walked silently back through the ruined sept. Irri's eyes lingered on the empty space from whence Daenerys left the world. _This was your doing, wasn't it?_ Of course it was. Nothing soaked her cunt like madness. _Thank you,_ Khaleesi.

Word had spread quickly, it seemed. A crowd of Dothraki had gathered near the back entrance, and roared and ululated when they spotted her. Irri stopped to smile and wave. She wanted to dive into the crowd and let them carry her back to the Red Keep, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. _I’ll never trust a crowd that much again._

Still, they needed something. She raised her arms and spread them, to show her freedom from chains. “ _Avvos save mori varrani kisha!_ ” She belted at the top of her lungs.

Missandei translated for Jon over the thundering mayhem of a reply. “Never again will they shame us.”

“Tell them I swear it, now and always,” he commanded. And she obeyed.

Before Irri could make it back to her litter, Jhogo pushed through the crowd with a horse and a torch. “No, no, no. You are _Khaleesi._ You ride.” Before she could respond, Jhogo casually threw the torch at her litter, settling the matter and drawing more cheers.

Irri mounted and Missandei joined behind her, wrapping her arms around Irri’s waist and resting her chin on her shoulder. _I know precisely what you’re doing, and I’ll punish you later. But don’t stop._ She smiled at her husband as he climbed onto his own horse. “I know this was hard for you.”

“I took no pleasure in it,” Jon replied, “but I should have done it years ago.”

 _Very true._ But late as it was, she felt nothing but gratitude, and regret for needing it in the first place. They moved slowly through the narrow streets back to the Red Keep; slowly enough that there was no need to hold on, though Missandei’s hands persisted in the lie, less convincingly with each stride. _I’ve made a shameless whore of you, haven’t I? Don't grow too brazen._ Irri let her shameless whore have her not-too-brazen fun, and inched her horse closer to Jon’s. “I’ve never seen you like that,” she confessed softly.

Jon shrugged and gave her the closest thing to a smile that his regal bearing would allow. “I’d promise to do it more, but I’d rather not have a reason to.”

Her cunt found that grossly insufficient. “Do we always need a reason?” She grinned coyly.

Appearances ceased to matter, and Jon cracked into a wicked smile. “I was merely doing the Crown’s business.”

“My Hand and I were doing the Crown’s business on the way here. Shall we finish it together?”

Jon blushed his way back to the castle, all three whispering thinly veiled filth to each other as they rode. The three made their way straight from their horses to the royal bedchamber.

“I must thank you, Your Grace,” Missandei told Jon, when the door closed. “You did not--“

 _Such a sweet girl, but still far too shy with this one._ Irri grabbed Jon’s breeches and unlaced them without troubling herself to ask. She tugged them down below his knees and sat him in a chair by the brazier, standing over him like an unruly child before a scolding, then snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor; a wordless command for Missandei to kneel before him.

“Here.” She kicked off a boot, dug out the spare key, and freed Jon from his cage. “Thank him all the way down your throat.”

Missandei hesitated, and stopped herself from kneeling. “May I first ask a favor of you both?”

Irri shook off her annoyance. “Of course, sweetling.” She motioned for her Hand to sit across from her husband. Jon pulled his breeches up, but left them unlaced.

“I would beg your leave to wed Grey Worm.”

 _Is this what you meant by ‘one problem at a time’?_ But she couldn't bring herself to be angry about it. _Only a monster would stand between those two._ “You don’t need our leave to wed anyone, you know that,” Irri reminded her. “If anything, I should beg your leave to conduct the ceremony. Do you wish to stop playing our games? Is that what you’re asking?”

She hesitated even more. “In time, perhaps. But I hope not too soon.”

“Too soon for what?” Jon asked. _Yes, too soon for what?_

The girl looked more terrified than when she knelt before the block. “If it pleases you both, I’d like His Grace to finish in me.” _Backhand her right across her face._ But the woman had served her so well for so long, and nearly lost her head for it. _Let her finish speaking, then backhand her._ “Not every time, but--”

Jon beat Irri to the obvious question. “I take it you know what happens when--”

“Yes,” Missandei blushed like a maid.

“Does your future husband know of this? He may be harder to fool than most, and I can’t have my best general despise me.”

“I know, Your Grace, and I would never ask you to dishonor yourself like that. I’m asking this on his behalf.”

Jon shot a quick look at Irri, and a longer one at her Hand.

“He would never ask you himself. That’s not his sort of courage. But he wants a family desperately. He wants the love that he never felt as a boy. You share blood with the woman who freed him. He would consider it a privilege to carry on her legacy. And yours, of course. But--”

“I understand,” Jon smiled. “But if this child learns who his father is, he may try to--”

 _Do you mean to grow a cock and do it yourself? You told her you love her, now prove it._ Irri cut him off. “You are two of the most loyal people I’ve ever met. I’m certain you’ll raise your child better than that.”

Missandei nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Jon continued. “And legacies and righting injustices are admirable things, but is this what _you_ want? I’m certain he means well, but he’s not the one carrying it around in his belly. And they’re no easier once they’re born.” He started counting on his fingers. “They shit everywhere for as long as they can get away with it. They do the precise opposite of what you want, always, no matter what. They throw things in the privy for fun. They insist they're not sick, then they retch all over you. They squabble over--”

 _He’s spent too much time with Edd._ “They make you want to burn cities to the ground to protect them,” Irri finished. “You know how fiercely we defend our children. You deserve to know why. Is that your wish?”

“It is, Your Grace. If that’s too much of a burden, I would--”

 _‘Too much of a burden,’ she says._ She looked at Jon, who nodded. “There are far more burdensome things you could ask of us.”

Missandei smiled, grateful and relieved.

Irri smirked at both of them. “Now be a good boy and take your cock back out, and be a good girl and suck it.”

They needed no further instruction, nor was Irri in a mood to give any. She took Missandei’s seat across from Jon, grabbed a fig or two from a side table, slid a hand between her legs, and watched as her two precious sluts made love to each other. Missandei took her time with her mouth, but soon enough rose and slid herself down onto him. She rode slowly at first, but both slipped into the unavoidable madness that they had both come to crave. _That’s not madness,_ she realized. _That’s nature. Madness was the past three days, and the ten years before it._  Watching her husband plant his seed in another woman gave her a pang of jealousy, but the anger quickly changed to an odd sense of pride that she had such a beautiful gift to give her sweetling.  _He doesn’t run out,_ she reminded herself.  _He’ll fill you again tomorrow. And again, and again, and again. There’s enough of him for us both._

Jon finished inside her, as promised. From the way they kissed, and the look on his face afterward, it looked like it had been a truly laborious favor.

Irri stood and walked toward the slutpile. “Enough favors for now, sweetling.” She looked down and stroked the girl’s hair, then kissed her on the mouth. “You can burden him some more tomorrow.”

Missandei smiled, intoxicated. “As you say, _Khaleesi._ ”

Irri slapped her ass playfully as she dressed. “You must choose a surname, now.” She squeezed. “And a sigil.” Another squeeze. “And some House words.” For good measure, she grabbed Missandei from behind and nipped at her neck before finally releasing her.

Missandei blushed like a maid again. “Of course, _Khaleesi._ ” 

She took her leave, and Jon and Irri thought it best not to show themselves in public for the rest of the day, to let the courtiers tire themselves of chattering about what they’d witnessed. So they spent their evening simply being in each other’s presence, and becoming husband and wife again.

“I truly want to know, what changed your mind?” Irri finally asked, as her husband slipped into bed next to her.

Jon laughed to himself. “Stark guilt, that’s all.”

“That Stark guilt woke the Dragon in you.”

“Something had to.” _Yes it did._

Irri kissed him one last time and fell into a dreamless sleep. At some ungodly hour, she realized she was awake, and staggered blindly toward the privy.

The voice came mid-stream, from nowhere in particular, but clear as day. “I’m sorry. This debt is long overdue.”

“Debts are customarily settled when the bank is open.” Irri said silently into the void. _And not while the creditor is having a piss._

The voice continued regardless, because that was the sort of thing this voice would do. “I left you a slave to a million men you’ve never met. They were all unworthy, but none more than me, and that was my fault alone. Perhaps when the world fears you as it should, and when you know deep inside they're right to fear you, you’ll honor me with your trust once more.”

“When I go back to sleep, will you chain me and beat me?” Irri asked as flatly as she could.

“No, sweetling,” the voice assured her. “Not until you’re ready.”

Irri smiled into the empty darkness like a half-mad fool. “What if I want it?”

She felt a pressure on her neck, tugging her up to her feet. That made her tingle. _You will never hide what a slut you are. Not from her._

The voice was closer this time; right next to her ear. “I know you want it. But what did I just say?”

 _Gods, yes, no one puts me in my place like you._ “Not until I’m ready, _Khaleesi._ ”

“And you’re ready when I decide you’ve begged enough. Go back to bed. I’ll see you on your knees.”


	8. Jon IV

Jon looked into his wife’s eyes, then down at the back of Missandei’s head, admiring it as he felt the warmth of her cunt envelop him.

“Go on, slut,” Irri commanded. “Fuck an heir into her. Plant--” Missandei’s tongue on Irri's cunt stopped her from finishing the thought, and her head crashed back against the headboard. “ _Fuck._ ”

 _You heard her. Give the slut an heir._ Missandei was anything but a slut, but something about taking a woman from behind made him want nothing but to make one of her. _We’re all beasts in the end,_ he realized. _You like the games you do because you think too bloody much._ Jon started to ponder why he thought so bloody much, then realized the irony and stopped himself. _Use her body. Make it yours. Do it._

Irri stroked Missandei’s hair lovingly, and whispered sweet things about what a good whore she’d become. Missandei whispered back that she was born to be her whore, thanking her for showing her what she truly was. Jon was too mesmerized with the pleasure of grabbing the girl’s waist and pulling her back onto his cock to hear everything, but he could sense that there was more to their words than a game. _Please don’t do anything stupid._

Jon was in no position to judge anyone for doing something stupid. _‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ says the King fathering a child outside his marriage._ It was too late now; that cunt was too tight and too wet, the rest of her body too perfect, and the whole notion too irresistibly wrong. He locked eyes with his wife and growled, twisting her face into a lecherous smile.

The cabin shook, but they paid hardly any mind. They’d been two days at sea, and had grown accustomed to the choppy autumn waves. Their ship was the _Winged Shadow_ ; formerly the _Silence_ , until it was captured from Euron Greyjoy. Behind it were a dozen longships, all packed with soldiers of the Royal Army, fresh from training and spoiling for a fight, hurtling through the Bay of Crabs toward Saltpans.

Terrible as Euron was, the man knew how to build a ship. The _Winged Shadow_ was fast, and comfortable by warship standards, but with a shallow enough draft that it could beach itself like the longships the Ironborn were famous for, and allow soldiers to fly off its low deck into knee-deep water without stopping to launch boats.

Leading the fleet alongside it was the Crown’s flagship _Queen Daenerys_ , imposingly beautiful and ostentatiously terrifying as its namesake. It led its own contingent of two dozen massive galleys, each full of Dothraki and their horses. As the beasts were harder to unload than infantry, _Daenerys_ and her group would separate from the longships and land a few miles northeast of the town, to give the horde room to mount a proper charge. _At their_ Khaleesi _'_ _s back._

Had Jon expected any less than a crushing victory, he might have worried. But there would be no siege; no prolonged battle outside the city gates, as Saltpans had no gates to speak of. With the Trident to the south and west, a Dothraki horde by land from the east, a thousand men and more on the beach, and a dragon above, Jon’s primary concern was not taking the town, but overwhelming it swiftly and decisively, before Daario Naharis could slip out. Even that was mostly vanity on his part. _I want to be the last thing he sees when he dies. Not some screamer stumbling upon him in a field._

“Oh, you think you're special now, slut?” Irri challenged him, as soon as the shaking passed.

 _No, I just want you to beat the stupid out of me._ The waves only made Jon even surlier and more defiant than he'd been. He thrust into Missandei and stared his wife down. “Shut your mouth and wait your turn.”

Irri laughed like he'd just challenged her to a fight in a tavern. “No one makes me wait. That's why you'll be a good little slut and _fuck_ that cunt nice and full for me. Then I'll show you what you truly are. Isn't that right, boy?”

 _Of course she's right._ He smacked Missandei's ass and pulled her harder onto him.

“See?!” Irri taunted him. “Seed that filthy whore so your master can beat you bloody.” She purred as Missandei moaned into her cunt, agreeing that was precisely how the world should be.

Jon could already feel the pain, though he wasn't even certain what she meant to do yet. _Doubtless something terrible._ The _Khaleesi_ had been in quite a mood since her pardon, taking every chance to remind him of her power, and her henceforth refusal to let it go unused.

 _Please, use it. Harshly. Especially now._ She was under no illusions that everyone suddenly loved her; she'd simply stopped caring about the ones who never would. She'd realized that the occasional secret murder was part of the business of ruling, and that she was just as entitled to order one as Jon or Dany or Robert Baratheon. She understood that there were more men willing to fight for her than against, and that an enemy too afraid to face her was as good as dead.

He'd never wanted her more. Much like Dany, she carried herself now with a subtle underlying menace, as if the only reason he wasn't pissing himself in front of a dragon's mouth was that it happened not to suit her fancy at the moment. Half of him prayed he'd never provoke her like that. The other half craved a glimpse of that fierce and awesome beauty.

In that moment, the latter half ruled him. _Show me the fury I unleashed in you. Show me what you'll do to anyone who questions you again. They're here at your sufferance now, not the other way round. Show me what that does to you. Show me!_

That craving came out in a brutish grunt and a thrust of his cock that made his wife snarl and Missandei scream.

“That's _all_ you want, isn't it?” Irri's eyes were aflame. “For your master to put you in your _fucking_ place!”

 _This cunt is nice, too,_ but Irri's face dared him to deny her, and Jon was not fool enough to accept. _Not yet._ “Yes, _Khaleesi.”_

“You think you're worthy of that?!” She smiled, mocking her silly boy for thinking himself worthy of anything from her.

Jon grew more foolish with each thrust. _That's Dothraki for ‘how much insolence do you want me to beat you for?’_ “More than worthy, _Khaleesi._ ” _That's Dothraki for ‘all of it.’_

Missandei's head was hard at work deep between the _Khaleesi_ ’s legs, but Irri paid her hardly any mind. She twisted the girl's hair in those tiny fists of hers and bucked her hips against her face, keeping her eyes on Jon the whole time.

Her deep breaths made her soft voice more threatening than one would expect. “You need it so badly, don’t you…”

 _Why lie?_ “Yes, _Khaleesi._ ”

“I’ll make you regret it,” she promised.

Nothing could have pulled his eyes away from hers. “I’ll never regret it, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Mmmm, then beg for it.”

Jon stayed silent and stone faced, just to be difficult.

That got Missandei a smack on the head, undeserved, but judging by her backward thrusting, greatly appreciated. “Insolent little shit, I said _beg!_ ”

Jon realized that no matter how badly he teased or provoked her, she would always find a way to lead him back to begging. _Some things are simply nature._ “Please, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Please _what?!_ ” Irri unleashed her fury on Missandei’s innocent face; a _Khaleesi_ 's natural and undeniable right.

Jon took his fury out on Missandei's innocent cunt, though he was a bastard slave with no rights at all. Missandei turned her head to the side and screamed, but Irri simply tugged it back to her cunt where it belonged. _Good. Serve her, slut._ “Please beat me, _Khaleesi._ ”

“That’s all you’ve got for me?!” Irri was never impressed with the first round of begging; that was part of the game, as Jon had known instinctively since the first time he’d played it. But when his cock was this hard, and this hungry for the cunt wrapped around it, he raged against anyone who denied him anything, and wanted nothing but to prove himself twice as worthy as anyone else.

He gritted his teeth and pounded away harder at Missandei’s cunt, as fiercely as he’d swung his sword at the first boy Thorne had told him he couldn’t beat. “Please!” His body was moving on its own will; he smacked her ass out of frustration, just below the small of her back. “ _Please_ beat me, _Khaleesi_.” _You twisted little cunt,_ he wanted to add, but he knew it wouldn’t come out as adoring as he meant it.

“Then do what I _fucking_ told you, and plant your filthy seed in that filthy cunt you're fucking!”

She sounded furious, though he knew she was rather plainly enjoying it. But the notion that he was nothing more than a poorly trained beast intoxicated him. He pressed down on Missandei’s waist, sliding her down until her cunt was just barely above the mattress. That made Irri’s eyes light up, and she bit her lip, as if to stop herself from pouncing on top of him and eating him alive. He dug his nails into Missandei’s ass as his cock began to throb and his body voided itself of all thoughts and sensations but the warm wetness on his cock. His balls constricted and his breath grew heavier, as he came closer and closer to the edge.

“Are you a man or a bitch?! _FILL IT!!_ ”

Jon let out a blind, mad grunt as his body did what it was meant to do, slamming himself against Missandei’s ass so hard it made her arms flail and knocked the wind out of her. _Bugger that._ He yanked her wrists behind her back to remind the royal broodmare of her courtesies.

Irri seized on the girl’s weakness and the sight of Jon draining his cock inside of her, and locked her head in place, marking her yet again. She threw her head back and screamed as Jon hit his peak, each pulse of his cock squirting more and more into Missandei’s cunt, giving the girl no respite or mercy from their lust.

He left himself inside her after he finished; too exhausted, too accustomed to the warmth, and too determined not to give any man even the slightest chance to possess the woman he’d just conquered. _No one. Ever. She's mine._ He knew she wasn't, but his body demanded a bit of madness when he hit his peak, and his wits returned as he caught his breath and felt himself grow soft. _Just a little more. Pull out slowly. Don’t take all your seed with you. Let it take hold._

So he did. Her cunt stayed open for a moment after he pulled out, pulsing, leaking, as Missandei struggled to catch her breath. Irri made her work for it, as she’d just gone over the edge herself. She wrapped her legs tight around her servant’s head and let out a scream of her own; her cunt releasing itself onto the girl’s face and into her mouth, then finally relaxing her grip and letting Missandei recoil, red-faced and breathless.

“Don’t move, sweetling,” Irri commanded.

She smiled, but sounded ready to faint. “No, _Khaleesi._ ”

Jon stayed on his knees between Missandei's useless, sprawled out legs, knowing it was not his place to decide when to move.

“ _You,_ ” Irri's voice dripped with contempt, and her eyes matched it. She pointed behind him. “ _Kneel._ ”

Her tone made him genuinely afraid to play the smart little shit he'd played so far. That made his cock twitch, drained and raw as it was. He eagerly hopped off the mattress and knelt facing the mattress at the foot of the bed, leaving enough space for Irri to stand in front of him.

Irri crawled over Missandei like a shadowcat over a fresh kill. By the look on her face, she still had a taste for meat. She sat herself on the edge of the mattress and grinned at him, still and silent, waiting for him to break.

Jon had been trained too well for too long to presume to touch her. _Don't move a muscle,_ he reminded himself. But without thinking, he cleared his throat.

 _Fuck me, that's all she needs._ Her palm was on the downswing before his eyes could beg forgiveness, and her other hand gripped his hair before he could flinch. _Thank you,_ Khaleesi, _that was weak and careless and insolent of me._

The scream had barely made its way out of his mouth when the sharp stinging pain on his face yielded to the blunt but crushing ache of her foot hitting his balls, changing it to a deep, winded grunt.

“Who told you to move?” Her tone was soft and sweet and furious.

 _Mmmm, you're a tyrant today, aren't you?_ “I'm sorry, _Khaleesi!_ ” _Go on, show me your madness. Crush me._

That got him another slap and a thumb under his chin to lock his head in place. “If the next word out of your mouth is _anything_ but an answer to my question, I will fuck you so hard the whole army at your back will know what a cheap slut you are by how you limp when you march.”

“No one, _Khaleesi!_ ” _Though the whole Realm knew it when Dany went browsing whorehouses for false cocks like a crone at a fish market._

“Precisely. _No one_.” She went back to her silent, loving grin. Jon felt a tickle in his throat, but had learned his lesson about moving without being told. _Suffer with it. It's a trifle. Be grateful for it._ She cleared her own throat, just to mock him.

Just as it was growing unbearable, she granted him the mercy of a twist to his nipple with her fingernails. It practically knocked him onto his side. “We're half mad today,” she smiled as he cringed.

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” He sighed in relief and caught his breath when she released him.

“ _Both_ of us, yes?” That was his chance to stop her, he knew. But his blood was far too hot. _And hers._ It was a testament to her restraint that she still bothered to ask. _Gods, I love this woman,_ he thought, still covering a nipple with his hand.

“Yes, _Khaleesi_ ,” he smiled. “Both of us.”

“Good,” she smiled back, then pressed one foot against his cock and lifted the other delicately to his chin. “Kiss.”

He kissed it like he'd kiss a lady's hand, and grinned up, blushing.

“Good boy.” She flexed her ankle and pressed her sole under his nose. “Now the part with the filth like you.”

Jon’s nostrils flared as he took in the scent. _Can't deny it, can you?_ But he loved being her filth, and kissed with due gratitude. Missandei had recovered, at least somewhat, and began to stir.

Irri looked behind her, and tugged at the girl’s ankle. “Up, slut. Come, sit where I am.” Missandei scooted down. Irri stood and moved behind Jon, then tapped his shoulder. “Rise. Face me.”

Once he stood and turned, Irri said something in Dothraki that made Missandei laugh stupidly. Before he could react, she slid her arms under his, pulled him into a reclining position in her lap, and locked him in place. Irri grinned like a fool. _I should really learn how to speak..._ Missandei kissed and sucked on his neck from behind. _...Something. I forget. Bugger it._

Irri bounced her perky ass across the cabin like the playful serving girl that part of her would always be, lit a candle, and bounced her perky tits back to Jon. She knelt between his legs, grinned, and held the flame over his nipple, teasing his cock with her other hand. "I know you want a beating," she kissed him quickly on the stomach. "But I'd rather do this."

 _Be careful of the wax._ The first drop landed on his nipple. He sucked his breath through his teeth, screamed, and squirmed. _Right._

She giggled and said something in Dothraki. Missandei bit his earlobe. “Your _Khaleesi_ commands you to stop fidgeting like a lamb with a blade at its neck.” Her warm breath was nearly as sublime as the kisses. He tossed his neck back. _If this is what the lamb feels before the blade, slice it, then._

The next drop hit his other nipple. Jon locked his body as best he could, but it wasn't enough. Irri said something else in Dothraki. Jon gave her a confused look, which seemed to annoy her, and prompted more Dothraki.

Missandei slapped him on the stomach. “Your _Khaleesi_ says this discussion is none of your concern.”

Jon nodded. “I'm sorry, _Khaleesi._ ” Another drop of wax landed in the center of his chest. Jon bit his cheek to give himself another pain to focus on. _And to please her. I know that pleases her._

The women chattered back and forth in Dothraki, giggling and exchanging wicked looks, as Irri let the wax drip over his chest. Each drop was as painful as the last, but the _Khaleesi_ paid him no mind, other than to swat at his cock like a fly when he bleated too loudly. She moved the candle lower, down his stomach and below his belly button. He braced for her to drip some onto his cock, but she spared him and stood, moving the candle up with her.

She let a drop fall near his neck, and decided to gift him with a necklace of delicate wax pearls, splattered along his collarbone. From time to time she'd caress his face, tweak an earlobe, stroke his hair, or rub her cunt and tease him with the scent and taste on her fingers, all while conversing with her Hand in her mother tongue.

“Am I torturing you, sweetling?” she finally asked with a loving smile.

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” The Common Tongue was a relief.

She kissed his forehead. “Good.” Jon expected that response. “Now you know how I’ve felt for the past ten years.” He did not expect that one.

She handed the candle to Missandei and told her to do as she pleased with it, then flicked a hardened drop of wax from his nipple and pinched.

“I've waited far too long for this land to accept me as one of their own.” Those words hurt more that the fingernails in his nipple. _I failed you, I know. Why must you keep reminding me?_

 _Drip._ “To stop speaking to each other as if I'm not even in the room.”

Missandei seemed to sense the rhythm of her speech before the words came out, and worked the candle accordingly. _Drip._ “To consider that perhaps a woman who rose from a wasteland to the Red Keep may have something useful to say about rebuilding a continent from a wasteland back to greatness.”

 _Drip._ “That perhaps a woman who was _given_ to Daenerys Targaryen as an afterthought to a wedding gift may know more about what the poorest and weakest among us pray for than a man who speaks of nothing but wine, whores, and japes about the time he murdered his rich, powerful father and got away with it.”

 _You’re not Tyrion. Remind her of that._ Jon had murdered neither of his two rich, powerful fathers. “My Night’s Watch brothers were all from--”

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._ And another twist to the nipple. “And how long was it before you were plucked from among them and groomed for command?” _Drip. Twist._ “A fortnight?”

She wanted him to speak, so she released his nipple to stop the screaming. Jon recovered as quickly as he could, not done trying to prove himself. “My family’s home was stolen--”

 _Drip._ And a shin to the groin. “And then you went to the Northern lords with your cousin and told them who you were, and they pledged their common people’s lives to you. Did it occur to either of you to ask them directly? To pay them? Or did you simply expect them to line up and march to their deaths because the richest man in town commanded it?”

“The common--”

She slapped him. “Shut your mouth while I’m speaking.”

Jon nodded an apology at the tiny girl towering over him.

 _Drip. Drip. Drip._ Lower this time, as Missandei searched for where she could hurt him the most. “How many times have you been asked if you speak the Common Tongue well enough to understand a simple sentence? Less than me, I promise you.”

 _Fewer._ Jon could not say why, but for some reason, that common mistake drove him mad. _Don’t say it now, unless you want less balls._

“How many times has the Small Council dismissed your ideas as too drastic, only for Tyrion to propose the same thing three days later and be called brilliant?” Missandei took the liberty of twisting a nipple with her free hand, and the dripping and screams continued.

“How long after you ceased to be a bastard did the world stop treating you like one?”

 _Instantly, or near enough._ Jon shrugged, afraid to say it.

“Instantly,” she answered for him. “And how long has it been since I ceased to be a handmaiden?” This time she didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Yet how many people _truly_ see anything else? To everyone but you and a few others, I’m the world’s luckiest serving girl. Even our most loyal friends don’t think I truly belong here.”

She snatched the candle back from Missandei and moved the flame side to side in front of his face, letting the wax build across the center of his chest. "Each little insult stings. Not so badly on its own, but one, after another, after another, and it wears you down. It makes you want to cry. It makes you wonder if something's wrong with _you_ for letting it hurt so much. But the pain doesn't stop, does it, sweetling?"

Jon shook his head, as his own pain grew worse. _Because you see her point._

“I wish I could say each drop was a punishment for one of those times, but there aren’t enough candles on this ship to drip the wax I’d need. Your punishment is to storm this beach knowing how late you are, even with the fastest ships in the fleet.”

“I’m sorry, _Khaleesi._ Truly.” His tone was of a ruler; not a slave, or even a husband. “I’ve said that many times. I said in front of a whole city that I would no longer abide that. I’m about to storm a beach to prove it. I don’t know how much more I can do.”

Irri blew the candle out, and motioned for Missandei to let him go. Jon fell to his knees, thought about standing, but decided he was more comfortable there. “It’s alright, sweetling.” She set the candle aside. “In truth, I’m late to this fight as well. You never tried to stop these things because you didn’t see them. How can I ask you to fight something you can’t see?”

“You could--”

She slid a finger into his mouth. _Close your eyes, suck, and listen._ “Stop, my love. Just stop. You mean well, I know, but you can’t save everyone from everything all the time. Sometimes that does more harm than good. I’m done complaining. I must lead my own battles, and it starts with this one. All I ask is that you trust me to command you. Do you?”

The ruler who had been speaking a moment ago disappeared. Jon opened his eyes, looked up, and nodded.

She smiled a more regal smile than she usually did in private. “Good.”

He felt his cock coming slowly back to life. Irri noticed it move, and grinned.

“You think that's worthy of my attention?” She raised an eyebrow and removed her finger.

As she’d promised, his insolence had been duly purged. “No, _Khaleesi._ ”

“Perhaps not.” She gave it an affectionate little kick with her shin. “But every soldier needs a whore before battle, no?”

“Yes, _Khaleesi._ ” _Until she's done with you, that's all you are._

Irri seemed to read his thoughts. “Precisely.” She motioned for him to rise, then dropped to her knees. “So whore yourself.”

Good whores do their duty, and Jon was no exception. His cock still ached; his skin still raw and sensitive, but it all ceased to matter when she took him into her mouth. He slumped, threw his head back straight into Missandei's chest, and moaned. The Naathi woman’s lips sealed themselves over his, and their tongues danced together as Irri sucked and teased and reminded him who she was. Their hands roamed across his chest, still covered in wax. The muscles in his stomach clenched, and Irri moaned softly onto his cock, scratching down over Alliser Thorne’s parting gifts to his Lord Commander.

She took him out when he was good and hard, but kissed and lapped with her tongue to keep it that way. “You may watch, sweetling,” she told Missandei. “But for the moment, I need him to myself, and he needs me.”

“Of course, _Khaleesi._ ” Missandei slid back onto the mattress.

Irri trained her eyes back to Jon and stood. “Gentle, this time.” She crawled onto the bed next to Missandei, rolled onto her back, and opened her legs. “We'll never forget the madness in each other. If this is our last time, I want to remember what a sweet, loving man you are.”

 _Enough of that._ But Jon could not fault her for being afraid. The warmth engulfed his whole body as he climbed on top of her and pushed himself inside. _Love. Pure, honest love._ He wanted to fuck that love senseless.

“Slowly, my love.” Irri put a hand on his chest and looked up. “This is my war. I'll start it when I’m ready.” Her generals would have begged to differ, as would the wind and tides, but her eyes were too dark and deep and perfect for Jon to care. _They can all fuck off. This is her war. She'll start it when she's ready._

As always, her commands proved wiser than his urges. Jon slowed his hips until she nodded and met his pace, and his thrusts changed from base rutting to a new oath of fealty, not because of some game, but because what good was he if he couldn't swear his life and sword to this woman's service? What sort of man was he if all the words that spewed out of his mouth when he was chained or on his knees meant nothing the moment he'd had his pleasure?

He studied her face as they gave themselves to each other; every little move of every little muscle of hers guiding him; mastering him. Her eyes widened. _‘Deeper.’_ She opened her mouth half an inch and exhaled, her breath shaking. _‘Harder.’_ Her hand moved from his cheek to his neck to his chest. _‘Not too hard. Just like that.’_ Her other hand moved slowly up his arm and behind his head. _‘Harder doesn’t mean faster, sweetling.’_ She panted softly, bit her lip, and narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. _‘Now it does. Go. Fuck me like you mean it.’_ Her heels hit his back and pressed him toward her. _‘Like that. More. Keep up with me, boy, I fucking dare you.’_

The panting turned to grunting, and her writhing beneath him turned from begging for his love to demanding it. _‘Prove you’re the man I married._ Her nails dug into his back and scratched down. _Prove the man I married is as great as they say.’_

She moaned in what sounded like pain, but Jon knew better. _‘More of that. I need it,’_ was all that meant. He spotted Missandei's hand slide between her legs, but refused to take his eyes off his wife. Hers widened back up. _‘Good. She's a sweet girl, but until this is done, I need to be the only other person in your world.’_

His thrusts grew faster, as her hips demanded. Her cries of pleasure made her sound like a scared little girl. _Let her be that girl. Let her imagine a life where that was safe for her. Save her from the bad men._ Each time his body slammed against hers, her screams grew louder. There was a fear in them, then a craving. _She's a woman again. Let her imagine a life where that's safe too._

Her hand slapped his ass, hard. _‘Thank you, but fuck safety. Do what you were born to do and put a fucking baby in me, just like you did with her.’_

“Give me another,” she whispered. “Please.” Jon bit his lip and unleashed himself. She threw a hand around his throat, to remind him that a pet without a leash is still a pet. “ _I command it._ ”

But the pressure on his throat was enough; even if he'd wanted to hold back, he couldn't. The ache in his cock grew stronger again, though there was nothing he could do about it; the seed was coming, just as much and just as powerfully as it had with Missandei.

Nostrils flared, sweat dripped and mixed, and foreheads pressed against each other. Lips and tongues met, then teeth joined the fray, until Jon decided he'd had enough, pinned her down, and took her. They kissed as he filled her, and for as long as he could remain inside, until his cock softened and slid out on its own.

When they were done, Irri motioned for Jon and Missandei to lay on either side of her. She scratched his head, making him purr and nuzzle her leg. _I'm holding court like this from now on. It is known._ He looked up lovingly into her eyes, but saw a hint of sadness.

“Are you alright, my love?”

A tear escaped down her face. “I hope that wasn't the last time.”

Jon tried not to roll his eyes. _You can't think like that!_ “It won't be. You were not put on this world to die fighting some blue-bearded ponce. You're destined for far greater things.”

Irri shook her head and stroked his face. “We’re not all ‘destined’ for something, my love. No one ‘put me on this world.’ I grew in some stranger’s belly after another stranger raped her because _another_ stranger lost a battle. My father didn't read some ancient book and decide he _must_ have me to save mankind. No one ever saw me in a vision in their flames.” _You don't know that._ “Perhaps _you_ have some greater destiny, but most of us are here to eat and shit and fuck and breathe until something comes along and stops us.”

Jon had no good answer to that. He reached up and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I promise you. Whatever I’m destined for, it involves you. I’ve seen my share of battles. If I thought you were truly in danger, I would not have brought you here. I couldn’t do that to the children.”

She seemed to find comfort in Jon’s love for the children. “You promise?”

“I promise. You won’t die today.”

Irri leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “Very well.” She pulled herself together, wiped the tears from her face, and turned to Missandei. “We should hold our final war council.”

The three made themselves presentable and summoned the rest of their advisors to their cabin. Grey Worm, Jhogo, and Lady Greyjoy entered. _A good lot for her,_ Jon thought. Two Easterners and a reform-minded woman were just as eager to see a little brown girl win a battle as the little brown girl herself, and less likely to second-guess or condescend her. Sam entered last, with the Prince and Princess, both of whom seemed disappointed that no one had been massacred yet. _As am I, children._

Grey Worm led off the meeting. His report was far from grave, but not ideal, either. “Some rebels have joined the sellswords,” he announced.

Jon made a point of staying silent, preferring to let Irri run the meeting. _This is her war. I promised to trust her to command me, and I do._ And the room needed to know it, Her Grace included.

“How many men do they have in total, then?” Irri asked.

“Two or three hundred, Your Grace.”

_Could be much worse. We still have the numbers by far._

But Irri had learned that men in defensive positions could hold their own against greater numbers than in an open field, and asked the proper question in response. “Is that enough to stop us?”

“They may slow down the men on the beach,” the general explained. “They may slow down the riders. They cannot stop us all together.”  _All together. Her war._

“Good.”

“The Meereenese have been spotted off Volantis sailing west, Your Grace,” Lady Greyjoy added. That was more troubling, but they had weeks to trouble themselves with it.

“Then we shall sail east,” Irri replied. “Smash them, then keep going.” _Hello, Daenerys._ “Head straight for the Bay of Dragons, turn Meereen to rubble, and come home. We can’t hold it, and we shouldn’t try, but we need to show the world what happens when they meddle in Westeros.” _At least she knows better than to hold it._

Lady Greyjoy nodded solemnly, but couldn’t hide the giddiness in her eyes at the chance to do what the Ironborn did best. “Gladly, Your Grace.”

Her Grace turned to Jhogo. “And the screamers? Are they ready?” She did her best not to look like a girl about to open a name day present, though her best was not very good.

“We will _crush_ these men for you, _Khaleesi._ ” Where Jhogo came from, he'd be mocked for boasting about such a trifling battle as this one, but Jon had never seen the man prouder, or more eager to get off this fucking boat and slaughter some people. “They fight over who will be first at your back.”

The look on Irri's face made Jon’s cock twitch. Utterly in command, and lusting to spill blood to prove it. Whatever fear she’d confessed before the meeting, she concealed under a mask of iron will, well befitting a ruler whose people followed strength above all. _I should never have held her back._

“Make certain they're ready to land quickly. We're here to fight, not dice on the beach.”

Jhogo nodded.

Vazzi broke away from Sam, climbed into Jon’s lap, and surveyed the table.

 _Pale in the face._ “Are you alright, my love? Are the waves making you sick?”

She shook her head silently and took a deep breath, fixated on the map on the table, like she alone were in charge of planning the battle.

 _Horse shit._ “You’re certain?”

Vazzi turned toward her father and retched right onto his breastplate.

“I’m not sick, Father! I’m just--” Vazzi’s protestation was interrupted by more retching. The sight of it made Aemon retch as well, all over the table. Jon smirked at Missandei. _I told you, this is what they do!_

He sighed and stood, letting his daugher perch herself on one arm. “Come,” Jon took Aemon’s hand as well. “Let’s go ‘not be sick’ over the railing. Grey Worm, come find me when this is done. And bring a towel.” _You should see what you're asking for, too._

The room nodded, Irri smiled adoringly, and Jon took his children abovedecks. _Her war._ The sun was bright, the sky cloudless, and the autumn air brisk and chilly. Jon stood between them and kept a hand on their shoulders to keep them from falling over the rail, as they took turns feeding their breakfast to the fish.

When they finished, he took their hands and strolled around the deck, thinking it best to give them some fresh air before subjecting them to the torment of Sam’s lessons. _Choppy water plus stuffy cabin plus sums equals whinging._ He’d learned that lesson quite well.

“I want to fight with you, Father,” Aemon pleaded, as the distant coastline came into view off the starboard side of the ship. Vazzi demanded Drogon for herself. Jon couldn’t stop himself from laughing. They were absurd requests, and he suspected the children knew it.

“When you’re older,” he answered both of them. “You have plenty of time to learn how to make the Realm fear you. And making them love you will come easy, I suspect.” _Though I'm not an impartial source._ “Making them _respect_ you, though, is harder.” _Just look at your mother._ “That comes from wisdom and fairness and all those horrible things Maester Samwell fills your heads with.”

Their grumbling was interrupted by a sudden flurry of activity on the deck. Men began barking orders, sails furled, and oars dipped into the water to stop the ship. The _Queen Daenerys_ pulled alongside the _Winged Shadow_ and lowered a plank. _It’s time._

Irri came abovedecks, her hair braided and her _arakh_ at her hip. Jon smiled as the children ran to her and clutched her legs.

“Ready, my love?” He asked, as Irri mussed the children’s hair.

She smiled, more nervous than she’d care to admit. “As ready as I’ll be.”

He hugged her tight. “Don’t think too much. Don’t cower, but don’t try to be a hero. Let your men protect you. You _will_ come back.”

“I know.” _No you don’t._ But it was the right frame of mind. Irri looked at him and bit her lip. _She can’t board a ship full of screamers with tears on her face._ “I will not leave my children without a mother.”

Jon had wanted to give her more last-minute advice, but forgot it all. “I love you,” was all he could say, as the lump grew in his throat as well.

They cupped each other’s faces in their hands. “I love you too,” Irri replied. They kissed, long and deep. Inappropriately so, especially in front of the children, but under the circumstances, Jon had no qualms with it.

“Best get on with it, then.” Jon motioned toward the plank. Irri kissed her children one last time, stepped up to the plank, and made her way across. They waved at each other one last time before Jhogo led her belowdecks. _You signed her death warrant, you fool._ But he stopped himself before the scolding got out of hand. _What’s done is done. Pray you made the right choice._

The children cried as they watched their mother leave, but composed themselves as soon as she disappeared from view. _Regal bearing is a cruel thing._ But they seemed to have finally emptied their stomachs, so Jon sent them belowdecks to Sam for their lessons.

Jon watched, alone, as the _Queen Daenerys_ and her galleys made their way toward the coast, until they were little more than dots against the foothills of the Vale. _You'll see her again, don't be stupid._

He headed toward the bow of the ship and spent a good deal of time brooding over the railing, still alone, as the whole Realm had learned not to interrupt him during a good brood. _This will be over in hours,_ he assured himself. _Then it will be your golden age. Her golden age. End this foolishness, lead your people through winter, and you’ll finally have lasting peace for the rest of your reign._ Tyrion would call him a fool for thinking that. _Fuck Tyrion. He’s a good man, but Dany was at her best when she ignored him._

After what must have been two hours, he spotted Grey Worm coming abovedecks and waved him over. _I’m more afraid of this conversation than the battle,_ he realized. He was certain Missandei would not have lied to him outright about Grey Worm’s blessing; Jon would never have agreed to that. But while the eunuch may have said all the right words, Jon still feared that blessing had come from some unspoken shame, or guilt, or fear of losing her. He wanted to take the man’ measure himself.

“I...” Jon cleared his throat. “I hear you're to wed soon.”

Grey Worm smiled and handed Jon a towel for the vomit that was now firmly encrusted on his breastplate. He was far more at ease than Jon expected. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You could not have chosen a finer woman.”

The general cracked something approaching a smile, which Jon knew was no small thing. _He loves her deeply. Pray you haven't betrayed him._

The silence perturbed Jon, and the stubbornness of his daughter’s hardened vomit was beginning to piss him right off. _Bugger that, keep talking, it's important._ “Have you chosen a sigil?”

Grey Worm reached into a pocket inside his tunic and unfurled a grey banner with the poisonous black and white butterfly of Naath. Above it was a set of broken manacles, and beneath were their words, ‘Never again will they shame us.’

Jon smiled. “My wife will be honored to see that.”

Grey Worm nodded. “If Your Grace consents, our surname will be Dohaetros. In Valyrian, means freed slave.”

 _Good and foreign. The Mormonts of the world will hate that._ Jon considered that a good thing. _They can cope._ “Of course I consent.”

Grey Worm snapped his fingers, and a squire came running with a bucket of water and a sponge for His Grace’s breastplate. _Brilliant._

The town came into view on the distant horizon, and Jon knew he was running out of time. _Should I give him the castle first? Or tell him I'm fucking his wife?_ _Ned never prepared me for these decisions._ He decided to lead with the hard part.

“I should have discussed this much earlier, and that's no one’s fault but mine.” The oarmaster began to beat his drum. Oars dipped into the water, and the ship sped up. Jon took a deep breath. “Lady Missandei has--”

The eunuch nodded and shooed away the squire. “I know. I want her to do it.”

 _Thank the gods,_ though Jon was still deeply uncomfortable. “Are you certain? If you have any reservations at all, I completely understand, and I'll stop at once, you have my word. I would never--”

“All I ever want is happy family, and happy Missandei. We choose you because you will not hurt her. We are grateful to you. Only you are worthy of Missandei.”

 _I hope you don’t believe that._ “No.” Jon put a hand on his shoulder and looked him dead in the eye. “Only _you_ are worthy of her, and I forbid you from saying otherwise. I know how happy you make each other. If the world were a just place, you wouldn’t need me at all.”

All Jon got in response was a nod, and he thought it best to let the man be silent. Grey Worm looked over the railing as Saltpans grew closer. The drumbeat picked up, more orders were shouted, and soldiers flooded onto the deck of the _Winged Shadow_ , and the longships around it.

 _Make certain he knows it. This may be your last chance._ “I mean it.” The wind started to pick up. “Any man can do what I’m doing.” _You fucking dolt, you were doing so well._ “Well, not--any man who has all his--Bugger, I’m sorry.”

Grey Worm seemed more annoyed with the apology than anything else. “It was many years ago. I am free and happy now. Do not be sorry.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” _Fuck me._

Grey Worm turned to him. “Missandei teach me what it means ‘dig hole.’ Your Grace digs hole. No more dig.” He smiled, more warmly than Jon realized he could.

Jon smiled back. “When you’re married, you’ll learn new ways to dig yourself a hole every day.”

The eunuch went back to staring at the horizon. “Missandei already teach me many things. Since I meet her, I become very good with tongue.”

The words came out so flat that it took Jon a moment to catch their true meaning. “You’re a sly little shit, aren’t you?”

Only a sly little shit could grin the way Grey Worm did. The first fire arrows landed a few yards in front of the bow. “We must lead these men,” he said, much less slyly.

Jon grabbed his arm. “Take the castle on the hill above the town, and drape your own banner from it. It’s yours, Lord Dohaetros.”

Grey Worm dropped to one knee, but Jon stopped him. “There’s no time for that. Raise a cup for me when we feast in your hall tonight.”

Jon and his general turned to face the men, who snapped to attention in unison, with no need to shout for them to quiet down. _Tyrion was right. Joffrey did have one good idea._ The Royal Army was a marvel to behold. _Or a terror, from the wrong side of the field._ Before him stood perfect columns of men in black armor with the three-headed dragon on their breastplates, metal shields to match, and helms modeled after the Unsullied. _If Dany were here, she’d have one hand down her breeches._ A few had been Dany’s eunuchs; most hadn’t, but Jon could not tell them apart. Their masks shielded all but their eyes, but Jon spotted not a hint of fear in any of them. _They’re either the best soldiers with their balls intact that the world has ever known, or they’re fools._ He would find out shortly.

The drum beat grew faster and louder, and the ship began to fly over the water so fast that Jon nearly fell the first time they crashed over a wave. Were he facing the bow, the wind would have been too strong for him to speak.

He opened his mouth, but before he could get any words out, a few more fire arrows came down, dropping lazily into the water on either side of the ship. _There are more to come,_ but Jon was prepared to take the risk and speak anyway. Grey Worm barked an order, and the men at the front of each column jogged up the stairs to where he was standing, and raised their shields behind him.

“These men--”

Another volley of arrows, this time not so lazy. _We’re about to come ashore._ Jon was certain he’d lose a few men to this round, but before the arrows could land, the entire deck at once became a wall of shields facing skyward. Arrows bounced off of them like pebbles off a castle wall, and the men stomped out the flames as they hit the deck, then snapped seamlessly back to attention so Jon could speak. _Your wives built this,_ he realized. _With their dainty little hands._

“These men think this land is theirs, and that you’ve come to steal it,” he shouted. _Keep it short._ “So _steal it!_ ”

The soldiers roared their approval, and a sailor motioned for Jon and Grey Worm to grip a rope. They did, as the _Winged Shadow_ drove its prow straight into the town’s pier, smashing it to splinters along with some fishing boats, and beached itself perfectly. Punctual as always, Drogon dove out of the sun and strafed across the town’s waterfront rooftops, turning the storm of arrows to hardly a drizzle.

Jon vaulted off the ship. With soldiers at his back, he sprinted toward the square just behind the waterfront. He pointed toward the largest building in the square, and his men rushed it, making room for the battering ram to smash straight into the door. It broke through like a knife through parchment, and Jon stood just outside, waving his men in. A few were hit with crossbow bolts when they passed the threshold, but the Crown’s men were too many and too good, and by the time Jon entered, the room was packed with his own men and a handful of dead sellswords. _‘The world’s best soldiers with their balls intact, or fools.’_ It appeared they were the former.

He grabbed a loaded crossbow from the hands of a corpse, darted to the stairs, and blindly loosed a bolt into the man waiting for him at the top. His men poured onto the upper floor and made equally short work of the rest of them.

“ _Where is he?!_ ” Jon asked a dying zealot, pulling him up by his shirt. “ _The ponce!_ ”

“In the sept. Praying,” were the man's last words. Jon laughed, then dropped him and let him die. _He'd better pray,_ though Jon suspected Daario Naharis had never prayed for anything but a warm body to dip his cock into, and was too stupid to change now.

He ran to the window and scanned the town for its sept. A sea of Dothraki swarmed through the streets into the plaza from all directions at once, like water flooding into a dry riverbed after a storm, sweeping rebels and sellswords away like dust. _They could have twice our numbers and they're still fucked._ The horses and riders were so thick that there was hardly room to stand, let alone fight.

“Hold the building!” Jon commanded the first soldier he saw, then ran downstairs into the plaza.

The Dothraki saw him and shouted amongst each other, then parted so his wife could trot her stallion down the main street to greet him. She was sweaty, and seemed not quite certain how she’d gotten where she was, but there was an unmistakable pride to the way she rode. _That is the most beautiful she's ever looked with her clothes on._ But there was no time for the perversion flowing through his mind.

He clutched the soft, fine leather of her riding boot-- _no time for perversion!_ \--then looked up at her. “Are you hurt?”

Irri shook her head. _I told you._

“Scared?”

She nodded.

He noticed her breastplate and _arakh_ for the first time, both covered with blood, then looked back up at her. “Did you kill someone?!”

She nodded again and shrugged, just as astonished as he was.

 _Gods, I wish I’d seen that._ “Have the riders storm these buildings. There are still some men shooting arrows from the windows. Clear them out, but leave the sept alone. _He’s_ in there.”

Irri’s black almond eyes lit up, and she gave him the most evil look a woman could give while still blushing. She took her boot out of her stirrup and pressed her sole against his cheek. _Very well, perhaps there’s time for a wee bit of perversion._ He turned his head and kissed it, but she put it back in the stirrup before anyone noticed. _Wise decision._

“I love you,” they said in near unison.

Irri turned back to her men and shouted in Dothraki, her voice as soft and sweet as ever, but her words as powerful to them as any _Khal._ Her riders began to clear out of the plaza, and she looked back at him one more time as she rode off. _Be safe,_ Khaleesi.

Jon walked alone toward the sept, as men in black armor and some in leather vests broke down every door in sight. He kept his hand on Longclaw, but his mind was already drowning in the vengeful glee of what he was about to do. Some fool darted out from around a corner and charged at him, but Jon slashed him down lazily, like a patch of tall grass.

The sept came into view at the end of the street, and a figure emerged from the doorway. Jon smirked. _That man used to fuck Dany._ He'd almost forgotten. _Come here, and you'll fuck her again tonight._

Two other men emerged, but Daario motioned for them to stay back. Jon kept his leisurely pace, but drew Longclaw with an exaggerated flair. The men raised crossbows, but Daario pushed them down toward the ground. He drew his own sword, but tossed it aside. _She's dead, you know. We don't have to impress her._

But on the off chance they did, Jon tossed Longclaw behind him like a discarded apple core. _You don’t need it. That’s not your weapon._ He kept walking and beckoned the sellsword toward him. _I said, come here!_

Daario came almost as leisurely as Jon did. As they grew close enough to see each other's eyes, Daario swung his arm behind his back. _Go on, throw the dagger._ He did, and Jon slid his head to one side as it flew by. _Thank you for the dagger, I’ll pick it up later._

If that bothered him, Daario showed no sign of it; only a chuckle. _Just a few more steps, you pompous cunt, I'll show you something funny._

A black dot appeared in the sky behind the sept. _He's all yours, boy. I wager you've wanted this longer than I have._

The beast made no sound, and the sellsword smirked once they got within shouting distance. A breeze blew down the street as Drogon flapped to slow himself into a hover. “I thought you’d have--”

_Dracarys._

Daario turned halfway round, and Jon beheld one of the most satisfying sights of his life. In a heartbeat, Daario went from a man to a dark figure coated in flame. His shriek was cut short as his throat melted, and the rest of his body with it. The figure went silent and changed from a man to a mass on the ground no bigger than an especially large horse’s morning shit. _I see how this could make her what she was._

Drogon seemed almost bored, and flew off. _Thank you, boy. Extra bacon for you tonight._

Jon walked over and admired world’s richest mound of soot. He kicked it, like a little shit of a child kicking his sister’s snowcastle, hoping some of the ashes he hit used to be the man’s balls. Then he felt a pain in his shoulder, and saw the crossbow bolt. _That was silly,_ he thought, as he spotted Daario’s guards marching toward him, reloading. _The war’s over._

He took a step forward and put a hand out. “Yield! And no harm will--”

They responded with some Ghiscari words that sounded quite rude. Another bolt lodged itself between his ribs, and another in his leg. _Really, now, enough with the games._ Before he could react, another hit him in the gut, and yet another whizzed by his head.

He reached toward his hip, but found nothing. _Where's Longclaw?_ He cursed himself when he remembered, but when he pivoted to run for it, his face hit the cobblestone. Drogon landed beside him, shaking the ground; his tail smashing the facade off a building. Jon assumed he’d coated the crossbowmen in flames, but before he could look back to confirm, it all went dark.

The next thing he saw was the ceiling of his cabin on the _Winged Shadow._

Sam’s face loomed over him, then snapped to one side. “Get back!”

“How bad?” Jon asked him, when Sam’s eyes came back.

“Bad.”

Jon couldn’t see what Sam was doing, but whatever it was, he was doing a great deal of it, and frantically. “Death?”

Sam looked at him, sighed, then shoved a rag in his mouth. “Bite this.”

 _A million dead men and hardly a scratch. Two cunts with crossbows..._ Whatever Sam did next hurt like hell, and Jon’s screams drowned out his thoughts.

“Hold it there,” he heard Sam yell at someone in his periphery. Jon felt himself grow faint. “ _Hold it there!_ ” Something pressed against his shoulder, and he seemed to stop fading.

Another unbearable pain, this time in his leg. He opened his eyes to find Sam’s bloody fingers holding a bloody arrowhead to the light.

“Fuck me.” Sam tried in vain to hide his muttering from Jon. He waved aimlessly behind himself, craned his head around, and shouted at the nearest sailor. “In my cabin. Leeches. And a green bottle with a manticore on it. _Go!_ ”

Jon did not like that bit about the manticore. Irri barged in as the sailor barged out, still dressed for battle. “How bad?!” She startled Sam with a hand on his shoulder.

The look Sam gave her was more honest than what Jon had gotten. Irri’s face shattered in front of him.

“Jon.” Sam held his face to keep his attention. “We need to make you sleep so it won't hurt. Alright?!” He nodded to pry out a response. Jon nodded along, as if he had a choice. Sam grabbed his hand, clasped it together with Irri's, and tore the rag from his mouth. “Bid your wife goodnight.”

Irri sobbed and kissed all over his face, switching between desperate jibberish in Dothraki and the same in the Common Tongue. _I wish I knew what you were saying._

He gripped her hand as tight as he could. Small as her hand was, her grip was far tighter. “I told you, you're destined for greater things. Do them, and burn anyone in your way.”

“Don't say such things, you'll live! Sam said--”

 _Sam said no such thing, my love._ “The dragons know who you are. They're your kin. Use them. You need no magic, just love.”

Sam's face filled his view, and his wife faded away behind him. He could hear her shrieking, as Sam thrust a funnel down his throat. “Don't fight it,” was the last Jon heard, but he convulsed nonetheless. Sam and whoever was in his periphery held him down. “Don't fight it!”

Jon's vision went fuzzy.

“Don't fight it, Jon!” Sam became a faceless figure of a man, then a dim spot against the light, then a mere presence as it all went dark and silent.

_Don't fight it!_

A silver circle appeared from the void. _Moon._ Something dug into his back. _Sticks._ A figure took shape where Sam had been. _Fairer._ By far.

Flames rose around him, then she was clear as ever. Her hips rolled back and forth on top of him, her cunt warm and wet and crushing his will to do anything but give himself up to her. Her eyes were closed; her body already lost in its own pleasure. She wrapped her hands tight around his neck. _Where else?_

“Don't fight it,” she whispered, with a hard downward thrust of her weight. _There's nothing left to fight._ She opened her eyes. _Blue and terrible and all I want to look at._ Jon gasped, which got him a beautifully cruel smile in response.

“Is it my eyes you fear?”

“Am I dead?” He managed to squeeze past the thumbs pressing into his throat. _Never let me go. Never again, please._

“You tell me, bastard.” She rode him gently, but he could sense her taste for mercy dwindling fast. “Is this what happened last time?”

“I told you, I saw nothing last time.”

She released his neck and caressed his face, then leaned down for a long, loving kiss. Jon let out a moan and she broke away.

He snapped his eyes open. She stared down with her bright blue eyes, using him, doing as she pleased with her chattel. From her face, it was plain that she took great pleasure in his fear, which only made him want to fear her more.

Something seemed to crack in her eyes, and blue gave way to white and deep violet. She slapped him and pinned his shoulders, filling him with the fear he craved. “That was before you met me.”


	9. Epilogue: Sam

“Truth now,” Irri finally broke the painfully long silence, standing over what only a maester would still call her husband. “He won't wake up from this, will he?”

 _If only the truth were that simple._ “He may, Your Grace,” Sam replied. “As long as we can still feed him, it's impossible to say. Men have spent years like this, then simply woken up.”

“But most don’t,” she added.

He could only concede the facts. “Most don't.”

Irri sighed and took Jon’s hand in hers. “He's not most men.”

 _No, but he's still a man._ Sam took a deep breath, and started down a dangerous path. “This sounds terrible, Your Grace, but you should consider how this affects your ability to rule.”

To his surprise, she nodded, without a hint of anger. “It is terrible, but it’s true.” She stared at her husband, as if he could offer advice. _I know what he'd say, and so do you._ “If he stays like this, then men will see me on the Iron Throne and say I'm merely keeping his seat warm. That I don't truly speak for the Crown. But if he dies…”

Sam put a hand on her shoulder. “Then we will have lost a great man, and it will fall to you and your children to carry on ruling, as is your right and duty.” He thought it best to let her puzzle out his meaning.

Irri turned toward Sam, threw her arms around him, and sobbed. He hugged her awkwardly, uncertain what was appropriate. Dothraki words came out, and he looked at Missandei for help.

The Hand stared blankly out the window of the cabin, as she'd been doing for the better part of two hours, though there was nothing to see but stars and moonlit waves. She shook her head, but only looked over for an instant. “It’s what you’d expect,” she said flatly.

Sam felt her turning to dead weight, and set her down on the mattress. _Perhaps that was a mistake_. She laid down and curled up against her husband, wailing like a tortured cat, but the only sign of life Jon showed was the rising and falling of his chest.

“Your Grace…” He squeezed onto the edge of the bed. “As you said, some men have lasted years like this, but most don’t survive nearly that long.”

That consoled her like a bath would console a tortured cat, and she wailed commensurately, but Sam wasn’t finished.

“In fact, any maester would be surprised if he made it back to King's Landing.” He paused. “And none could name a good reason why he should.”

Missandei looked away from the window, horrified, but knowing he spoke the truth. Irri's screams deadened into common crying, though Sam suspected that was pure exhaustion.

“ _I_ certainly couldn't, and they say I'm the best.” He put a hand on her back. “And he's my closest friend. If anyone could think of a reason, it should be me. But if he died on this ship, I’d have no grounds to say it was anything but the wounds.” _Please understand me._

Irri rolled over; her face an utter mess. Sam handed her a handkerchief as she sat up. She nodded silently, wiping tears and snot from everywhere. _That's the best I'll get from her._ In truth, he preferred she say nothing aloud.

“You should spend the night with your husband, Your Grace. Alone. Your advisors mean well, but they will only offer questions, and opinions, and judgment for things they don't understand. Some things are not for others to see. Even Lady Missandei shouldn't be here.” His eyes darted over to her. _She knows why,_ he could tell by her face. “Be alone with him. Think about what he would want.” He retrieved a pillow that had fallen to the floor during the chaos, and placed it on her lap. “And what your _Khaleesi_ would have wanted for him.”

Irri let out a sigh, but could only look at the pillow. For a moment, she had barely more life in her than her husband. But the handmaiden in her came out, and she fiddled with the pillowcase, straightening out the wrinkles with her palms.

Sam stood, and Irri looked up. He held her chin with one finger, to keep her spent, red eyes where they were. “If he should stop breathing in the night, send for me. He may be beyond saving, but _you_ will not be, nor your children, nor the Realm. I will do all I can to serve, now and always. Do you understand?”

She composed herself as best she could, and nodded silently again.

“Then if Your Grace needs nothing further, I--”

Irri waved him away before he could finish. “Go,” she commanded with a sniffle.

Sam bowed and took his leave. Missandei followed, after a kiss to the royal forehead.

He thought about trying to sleep when he returned to his cabin, but couldn't bring himself to lay down. _It's a mercy,_ he told himself, mindlessly spinning an empty wine cup on the table. And it was no platitude; he hadn't the faintest doubt it was true. _For him, and the Realm._ Jon had gone to battle to move on from the past. _So, on we move._

His eyelids were heavy when the knock came. Alone, with a pillow under her arm, her face ravaged by tears but her eyes as steely as Sam had ever seen them, the Queen led him silently to her husband. Sam did his duty as a maester, little as there was to do. A raven flew in the dead of night, and dragons came from nowhere to fly low alongside the ship. The next morning the _Winged Shadow_ docked in King’s Landing, to the sound of bells.


	10. UPDATE: Maybe a Sequel?

Today, in all of an hour, I randomly came up with a chapter by chapter outline for a sequel to  _The Link Endures._ I am currently in the middle of [another fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264447/chapters/27871731), but this would be next on the list or possibly a concurrent project,  _if_  there's interest.

Length would be similar to this and _Breaker of Chains_. Main POV characters would include Irri, Missandei, and Irri/Jon's OC children, who would be adults when the story takes place. The OCs will be a major focus of the story, but not the only focus. Certain dead favorites would make fairly substantial cameos in various contexts. Smut content would be similar to the rest of the series in quantity, quality, and genre. It will definitely be the last of the _Breaker of Chains_ series.

If there's demand for this, I'll consider writing this simultaneously with my current fic, a smutty modern AU which in my opinion, unlike many ASOIAF modern AUs, does not suck. If nobody gives a shit, I will finish that fic and see how I feel.

Please chime in if you are inclined to do so.


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